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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Is a story of the Civil War. While based on part of the service of 
the Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers, it is more 
intended to give the reader an idea of the everyday life and 
experiences of a private soldier in the volunteer army. The library 
shelves are filled with war books from, the viewpoint of the officers, 
but there are very few which portray the everyday events of the 
great conflict as seen by the narrow vision of the man in the 
ranks. And it is doubtful if ever this phase of army life has been 
written so interestingly and graphically as in this story. Hard- 
ships and suffering were not perpetually endured by the 
private soldier in the war, by any means. There were enjoyable 
incidents daily that went far to offset the doleful side of army life, 
and this will never be fully appreciated by those who fail to read 
“The Young Volunteer.” The work only covers a part of the 
war — just enough to give a sample of each of the varied expe- 
riences of a private soldier, without repetition. The horrors of 
the toilsome march and the terrors of great battles are vividly 
portrayed, while the common, everyday incidents of camp life and 
the lonesome picket are interestingly described. The chapter 
devoted to “The Army Mule” is unique, and the description of 
“My Pard” touching and pathetic. The horrors of a battlefield 
at the close of a day’s engagement, while the surgeons are at 
their grewsome work, are portrayed with a realism rather ghastly, 
perhaps, but literally true. Not the least interesting part of the 
story is the description of the author’s efforts, which eventually 
resulted successfully, to obtain a commission as an officer. The 
whole is just what its title indicates — a faithful description of the 
everyday incidents and experiences of a boy volunteer in the Civil 
War, and it is entertaining from the hour of original enlistment 
till the end of the service by promotion to the shoulder straps. It 
is not only interesting, but instructive, and will be found enter- 
taining to old soldiers and of particular benefit to the boys of the 
present generation, to whom the long War of the Rebellion is a 
mere incident of history. 


A FEW BRIEF EXTRACTS FROM COMMENDATIONS 
OF THE FIRST EDITION BY PROMINENT 
PERSONS AND PAPERS. 

“Do you know that you have produced one of the greatest books 
since Fort Sumter was fired upon? I sat up far into the night, 
unable to lay it aside until the last page was finished. ‘The Young 
Volunteer’ is the most realistic picture of the Civil War, from the 
viewpoint of a private, that I have ever seen, and I have read 
everything obtainable bearing upon the tremendous conflict of 
1861-65. I don’t believe that you realize yourself the superb work 
you have done, its chief fascination being its self-evident truthful- 
ness. * * * ‘The Young Volunteer’ contains scenes which 
neither Stevenson nor Kipling has ever surpassed. * * * I 
repeat, speaking in cold blood, that I have never seen anything 
bearing on the war that can compare with it.” — From Edward S. 
Ellis , author of “The People's Standard History of the United 
States ” and innumerable other works. 


“I can swallow the whole of the story except the story of the 
mule that swallowed the shelter tent. * * * You ask how 
Comrade William McKinley would take the presentation of a 
copy. He would take it well and thank you much.” — Garret A. 
Hobart, Vice-President of the United States. 


Executive Mansion, Washington, June 14, 1899. 
Mr. Joseph Crowell: 

My Dear Sir — In the President’s behalf I beg leave to acknowl- 
edge the receipt of your letter of the 13th inst., and to assure you 
of his appreciation of the thoughtful courtesy which you have 
been good enough to extend to him. Very truly yours, 

George B. Cortelyou, 
Secretary to the President. 


“You have written a story that is natural, original and touches 
the spot. Your descriptions of soldier life from the experience of 


a man in the ranks is exact and true, as I know it myself, and it 
has the additional merit of being told in a mirthful vein, which 
you carry all through.”— v4. M. Matthews , President Second 
National Bank , Orange , N. J., formerly Captain Thirteenth New 
Jersey Volunteers. 


“The story contains many humorous incidents connected with 
the Bergen County families and is written in the easy newspaper 
reporter’s style.” — Bergen County (N. J.) Democrat. 


* * * We had to laugh ourselves 
At John Ick’s countersign, 

And how he called it “Lager Beer” 
When it was Brandywine. 

Who at his knapsack’s heavy weight 
Said: “Poys, I’m goin’ pack 
Alretty, dot’s de camel dere 
Dot proken de straw’s pack.” 


* * .* We had to smile, we own. 

About the time we went to bed 
Beneath a bed called “Pup — ” 

He woke up in the night to find 
A mule had eat it up. 

And when the boys those rations stole — 

The good-for-nothing critters — 

They found that they their spree had had 
Upon Hostetter’s bitters. 

— Extract from a poem on ({ The Young Volunteer ” by Mrs. E. 
Wheeler. 


“I have read ‘The Young Volunteer’ and find it a vivid repro- 
duction of scenes which all young Americans cannot fail to be 
interested in. It deserves wide circulation. I write this without 
solicitation.” — C. W. Baldwin, City Treasurer, Paterson, N. J. 


“The Young Volunteer” is just what its title indicates, a faithful 
description of the everyday incidents and experiences of a boy vol- 
unteer in the war. It will be found of particular benefit to the 
boys of the present generation, to whom the long War of the 
Rebellion is a mere incident of history. — Paterson (N. J.) Daily 
Press. 


The idea was to tell the story of the war as it appeared in the 
eyes of a private, giving his personal experiences, his travels and 
amusements, and permitting the strategy and conduct of the war 
to be either second place or wholly eliminated, unless it was 
necessary for the purpose of explaining the thread of the story. 
* * * That Mr. Crowell did his work well is admitted by all 
who have read it. — Paterson (N. J.) Sunday Chronicle. 


“The Young Volunteer” will be read and re-read with much 
interest by every veteran of the Civil War. Many books have been 
written on the memorable struggles between the North and South, 
but none of them will appeal more strongly to the old soldiers and 
their families. * * * Although it narrates the trying times 
of Jerseymen especially, the book tells the story of almost every 
regiment that forged to the front from 1861 to 1865, and, in conse- 
quence, will be widely read wherever the Stars and Stripes flutter 
in the breeze. — Paterson ( N . J.) Guardian. 


It is a budget of war stories written in a lively, humorous vein, 
and will be a welcome addition to the veteran’s library. — Passaic 
(N. J.) Daily News. 


It is historically accurate so far as it goes, being based on the 
service of the Thirteenth New Jersey Volunteers. * * * All 
our old veterans will find it superior reading. — Passaic ( N . J.) 
Daily Herald. 


The story of “The Young Volunteer” covers only part of the 
war — just enough to give a sample of each of the varied expe- 
riences of a private soldier, without repetition. The horrors of 
the toilsome march and the terrors of the great battles are vividly 
portrayed, while the common, everyday incidents of camp life and 
the lonesome picket are interestingly described. — Neely’s “ Notes 
on New Books.” 


“The greatest compliment I can pay the author is that I read 
it through inside of forty-eight hours. What may appear doubtful 
even to the author is the fact that he is nearer to Boswell than 
any living man of my ken, and to avoid labor I refer you to 
Macaulay’s Essay on Croker’s Life of Johnson. * * * It is 
fascinating throughout.” — Extract from a private letter to Heber 
Wells, from J. L. Hughes, Esq., a former Oxford University stu- 
dent, now living on a ranch in British Columbia. 


“I have been trying to get time to read your book * * * but 
I don’t seem to be able to find time to read anything but Pub. 
Docs. * * * but expect to have the pleasure at a more con- 
venient season. I trust you will make a lot of money out of it.” — 
John W. Griggs , Attorney-General of the United States. 


“The march across the aqueduct bridge, the tramp to Rockville, 
the enthusiastic reception by the girls at Frederick, the lost order 
of Lee’s picked up in our headquarters camp there, the Antietam 
campaign, the hospitals and the appearance of the battlefield imme- 
diately after the fight, are so truly described that they bring up all 
of these incidents vividly to my recollection.” — General George D. 
Ruggles, formerly General McClellan’s adjutant-general, and the 
adjutant-general of the United States Army for many years, now 
governor of the Soldier’s Home at Washington. 


“ The Young Volunteer’ gives a crisp, graphic picture, rendered 
the more striking by coming from the standpoint of the enlisted 


man. How well he illustrates the cruel cost of sending men, raw 
and uninstructed, to the field— the loss — the pity of it! Please 
congratulate the author for me.” — Major-General J. H. Coppinger. 


“I desire to thank you personally for the great pleasure enjoyed 
in reading your story of ‘The Young Volunteer.’ ” — George F. 
Ingham , formerly Major, U. S. A. 


“It is one of the most curious and interesting works that has 
been issued in years. There’s a fund of information in it, too, 
and it is put in the author’s own inimitable way, so that, taken 
altogether, the books is a most interesting contribution to the story 
of the great rebellion.” — National Labor Standard. 


“Although written with no attempt at literary style, Mr. 
Crowell’s story presents a vivid picture of what war is like to the 
private soldier, whether in camp, on the march or on the battle- 
field. He describes the real thing, with all its repulsive as well as 
its inspiring incidents. * * * As a picture of manners, and 
of the human side of war, it may be of value to later historians.” — 
New York Sun. 


“The favorable criticisms ‘The Young Volunteer’ is receiving 
verify my judgment that your book is of extraordinary merit. 
It is history written as it rarely has been, and when the elements 
of humor and detail are reckoned in, it perhaps never has been. 
It is a grandly graphic book.” — S. F. Palmer, Commercial Writer. 


“The book is one of the most entertaining I ever read. The 
only fault I have to find with it is that it has kept me up too many 
hours at night when I ought to have been in bed. * * * I 
never stopped until I had finished, regardless of the way the night 


was slipping away.” — George S. Hilton, author of “The Funny 
Side of Politics.” 


“All the methods of military organization, from the formation 
of a company of raw recruits until they are transformed into 
trained and efficient soldiers through drill, discipline and engage- 
ment in battle are given with careful but not tedious particularity, 
and the narrative is constantly enlivened with interesting occur- 
rences and stirring adventures.” — Hackensack (N. J.) Republican. 


“The horrors of the toilsome march and the terrors of great 
battles are vividly portrayed, while the common, everyday incidents 
of camp life, and the lonesome picket are interestingly described. 
The chapter devoted to The Army Mule’ is unique and the descrip- 
tion of ‘My Pard’ touching and pathetic. * * * It is enter- 
taining from time of original enlistment till the end of service as a 
private by promotion to the shoulder straps.” — New York Tele- 
gram. 


My Dear Mr. Crowell: — I have read it “from A to Izzard” 
and enjoyed it immensely. As I have rambled through its diversi- 
fied pages I’ve laughed and cried and shivered in regular rotation. 

George C. Wilding. 


Supreme Court, Judges’ Chamber, 

Court House, Chambers Street, New York. 

Joseph C. Crowell: 

My Dear Sir — A comrade loaned me “The Young Volunteer,” 
and it has been a long while since I have read a book which 
interested me so much. I was a volunteer; and served in the 
cavalry, and there was hardly a page in your book that did not 
recall a personal experience of my own. Only yesterday I spoke 
to Senator Dryden about it and told him to tell Gov. Murphy that 


it contained a pleasant reference to him, not thinking for the 
moment that you had doubtless sent the Governor a copy. 

The comrade who loaned me the book won’t permit me to steal 
it, and I come to you in the hope that you may have a copy you 
can spare. I do not care for the cost — I WANT IT. * * * 

Sincerely yours, 

James A. Blanchard, 
Justice New York Supreme Court. 









































* 


















r 
























































« 




THE 


YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


THE EVERYDAY EXPERIENCES OF A 
SOLDIER BOY IN THE CIVIL WAR 


BY 

JOSEPH E. CROWELL 

PRIVATE COMPANY K, 13TH N. J. VOLUNTEERS AND 
LIEUTENANT VETERAN RESERVE CORPS 


SECOND EDITION — REVISED AND ILLUSTRATED 



PUBLISHED BY 

JOSEPH E. CROWELL 

THE CALL 

PATERSON, :: :: NEW JERSEY 


A 4 


/v ; 

v (/ i 






A' 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooies Received 

JUN 18 1906 

1 Copyright Entry 
C ^ LA SS GC XXc. No, 

> ^7 3 

COPY B. 


TO MY LIFE-LONG FRIEND, 

CAPTAIN CHARLES CURIE, 

(Late of the qth and 178 th Regiments, N. Y. Volunteers) 

New Jersey Department Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic. 

A BRAVE SOLDIER, A GALLANT, A CONSIDERATE OFFICER, A LOYAL VETERAN 
A WORTHY CITIZEN, AN UPRIGHT MAN, AND, ABOVE ALL, A TRUE 
FRIEND IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD, THIS BOOK IS HEARTILY AND 

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 


* < 
f < t 


Copyright, 1906, 
by the Author 


PREFACE. 


What is army life during the time of war like, as 
seen by “the rank and file” — the men who compose the 
great majority? 

To give an idea of the experiences and everyday ex- 
istence of the private soldier was the main object in writ- 
ing this story. 

The world is full of books written from the standpoint 
of the officers, giving the movements of troops and gen- 
eral accounts of great battles, and describing the 
maneuvers as witnessed from headquarters. They are 
histories, it is true, as seen by the writers, but they do 
not portray the life, hardships, trials and sufferings of 
that portion of the army known as “the men.” 

There is a great dividing gulf, military and social, 
between “officers” and “men,” and they see the same 
things with vastly different eyes. 

There are very few works relating to the actual ex- 
periences of the private soldier, giving his troubles and 
his joys, and presenting the dark and the bright sides of 
his life in the army. Hence this story covers a somewhat 
unbeaten field, and its novelty will proportionately add to 
its interest. 

The story is historically correct, so far as it goes. It 
is part of the history of the Thirteenth Regiment, New 
Jersey Volunteers, in the War of the Rebellion. But it 
is only so in part, for it is merely carried far enough to 
give the reader an idea of a private’s life in the army. To 
extend it further would be largely a repetition of the same 
experiences, for, with topographical and climatic varia- 
tions, all marches and battles are similar — to the private 


IV 


PREFACE 


soldier. Most of the names used are genuine and a ma- 
jority of the incidents portrayed are the actual experi- 
ences of the author; hence for the nearly two years 
covered it is history. 

It may be confidently asserted that nothing has been 
exaggerated or overdrawn. Nor is there anything in it 
especially remarkable. Practically it relates the experi- 
ence of nearly every private soldier who served in the 
civil war. Thousands and thousands of others could refer 
to it as their own history, for their experiences were iden- 
tical with it. 

To give the youth of the country a faint idea of real 
war and real army life; to instil in them sentiments of 
patriotism; to impress upon them the magnitude of the 
task of preserving the Union ; and to cause them all the 
more to appreciate the blessings they now enjoy through 
the patriotism, sufferings and privations of their fathers 
and grandfathers, were also objects which instigated the 
story of “The Young Volunteer.” 


INTRODUCTION TO SECOND EDITION. 


It is unnecessary to devote much space to the intro- 
duction to the Second Edition of “The Young Volun- 
teer/’ Without going into details it is sufficient to say that 
the first edition was completely exhausted some time ago. 
And there has been such a demand for the crude and 
humble work — the everyday experiences of a plain soldier 
boy, so different from other books on the Civil War — that 
it has been deemed expedient to issue a second edition. 

This edition has been revised and brought up to date 
by disposing of some of the characters in the first edition 
who have passed away, and the correction of some his- 
torical details. For while “The Young Volunteer” was 
never intended to be taken in an historical sense, yet so 
far as it goes it followed the line of actual facts so care- 
fully that it has been criticised from that rigid viewpoint, 
greatly, it must be confessed, to the astonishment of the 
author. 

This edition is also illuminated by illustrations, some 
reproduced from actual photographs, and others drawn 
by a well-known artist from descriptions and scenes in 
the text of the work. This will no doubt enhance the in- 
terest of the volume in the eyes of its younger readers. 

There is also added an appendix covering some new 
points of interest that have developed since the first 
edition. 

The author hereby acknowledges his great obligations 
to Captain Charles Curie, Department Commander of the 
G. A. R. of the State of New Jersey, for his invaluable 
co-operation in the publication of both the first and 
second editions of “The Young Volunteer.” 


Just a word of explanation — The terms “rebels,” 
“rebs,” “the foe,” “the enemy,” etc., in this book are by 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


no means meant in an offensive sense to our friends of 
the South. It must be remembered that this work is writ- 
ten in the vernacular of the time. The war is over — long 
since. The little trouble with Spain proved that there was 
“No North, no South, no East, no West,” when it came 
to rallying round “the Flag,” and should another war 
come along we would find the descendants of the Blue 
and of the Gray marching side by side in a common cause. 
The terminology of the “sixties” is altogether different 
from that of the opening years of a new century. So 
again, friends of the South, remember that the language 
of this book is simply the language of the years which it 
covers. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER. 


CHAPTER I. 

ENLISTING. 

“Say, Joe, won’t you carry this package of cheese 
around to Mr. Pennington’s? The boys are all out, and 
I promised to send it some time ago.” 

The speaker was Henry B. Crosby, who kept the big 
grocery store in Main Street. He was variously known 
as “The Grocer King” and “The Cheese Prince” — the 
latter appellation resulting from his custom of buying 
cheese by the cargo and selling it at a lower price than 
any one else. If I had known then what I afterward 
knew, I would probably have said “Cheese it,” and forth- 
with “skipped,” instead of being a “skipper.” If it hadn’t 
been for that pound of cheese I might never have been in 
the army, and the war might have been going on yet ! 

Aaron S. Pennington, like all the old gentlemen of 
that day, generally did his own marketing. You could 
see him walking down among the hucksters on Main 
Street every morning, with a big market basket on his 
arm. Few of the grocers and butchers had wagons in 
those days. People bought their own provisions and gen- 
erally carried them home themselves. How Mr. Pen- 
nington came to leave that pound of cheese to be sent 
home I never knew. 

I did not work in the grocery store. I was employed 
in the Guardian office. In the forenoon I set type. In 
the afternoon I wrote down the war news at the only 
telegraph office in the city, which was in the old Erie 
depot. “J ack” Dunning was telegraph operator. “Tune” 


8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Dougherty, who was then a wee bit of a fellow, was the 
sole messenger boy. In the afternoon when the paper was 
out, I carried a route and sold papers on the street. In 
the evening I tended office and helped on the books, for I 
understood bookkeeping. Wages one dollar and fifty 
cents per week. 

Still, my hours were not ironclad, and I had time left 
to go around a little to pick up local items, and Crosby’s 
grocery store was one of my “loafing” places. There was 
a considerable degree of familiarity between the boss 
grocer and myself, and that is how he asked me, as a 
favor, to carry around the cheese to Mr. Pennington. 
This introduction is given, therefore, not only as an his- 
torical fact, but as an example to show by what insig- 
nificant events a man’s life is frequently swerved. Many 
a time afterward I hurled boundless anathemas at that 
pound of cheese, and wondered why Aaron S. Pennington 
wanted cheese for supper on that particular afternoon. 

I well remember the day. It was Wednesday, August 
1 8, 1862. And right here let me interpolate a little his- 
torical data. 

It was, so far as the feelings and apprehensions of the 
North were concerned, the most critical period of the 
war. The Army of the Potomac had retreated from a 
position whence they could actually see the seven hills of 
Richmond, back to Harrison’s Landing, on the James 
River. General Lee was marching with the Confederate 
army close behind, and even Washington was threatened. 
The North was, as a consequence, precipitated into a gen- 
uine panic. It looked as if, before another month, the 
Confederates would be in possession of the National Capi- 
tal. President Lincoln issued a call for three hundred 
thousand additional volunteers. If enough could not be 
obtained voluntarily, a draft was to be ordered. 

It should be stated that the first rush to arms, in 1861, 
had been spontaneous. The first term of enlistment was 
but for three months. Then it became apparent that the 
rebellion was not going to be suppressed in three months, 
and three years’ men were called. The ambitious, impul- 
sive youths who are ever on the watch for adventure, 
constituted the first spontaneous outpouring of robust 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


9 


young patriots, but in ’62 it was different. Things had 
become serious. The people of the country had suddenly 
awakened to a realization of the fact that they had a real 
war on hand. And not only a war, but probably a long 
and stubborn one, against an enemy equally brave, almost 
as strong, and, perhaps, still more determined. 

It would be impossible for the present generation to 
form the slightest conception of the excitement that pre- 
vailed. Public meetings were held everywhere, and the 
most potent orators in every locality were urging upon 
the young men to do their duty by flying to the defense 
of their country. 

I was one of the “flyers.” And it was all through that 
pound of cheese. As I came back from Mr. Pennington’s, 
I saw a big crowd of people in front of the old “bank 
building” in Main Street. There was a big stone piazza 
or vestibule on a level with the second story, which was 
reached by flights of stone steps on each side. On that 
piazza some one was making a speech. 

He told of the imperiled country and urged on the 
young men to enlist. Socrates Tuttle, a prominent lawyer, 
described what a glorious thing it was to fight for one’s 
native land. Colonel A. B. Woodruff, General Thomas 
D. Hoxsey and others spoke in a similar strain. The re- 
sult of it all was that half the boys in the crowd couldn’t 
get to the nearest recruiting office quickly enough. 

It is a very singular thing that of all these impas- 
sioned orators who said it was such a glorious thing but 
one enlisted himself ! But then, perhaps, it was necessary 
to have some one remain home to do the talking! One 
of them, however, who was subsequently drafted, nobly 
fought and died — by proxy. He sent a substitute, at a 
cost of eight hundred dollars. 

And that reminds me of a thing that has perhaps been 
forgotten. So afraid were some of the leading citizens 
that they might be drafted that they formed a “mutual 
substitute insurance company.” It cost at that time eight 
hundred dollars to get a man to take your place. (Later 
in the war the price advanced to fifteen hundred and 
two thousand dollars.) Well, eight men would chip in 
one hundred dollars each into a general fund, and if any 


IO 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


one of the eight was drafted the money would be used 
to “buy a substitute/’ If two of them were drafted, the 
extra money was raised by an additional assessment ; but 
the drafting process was like a lottery, and as a matter of 
fact there was seldom more than one “prize” in an asso- 
ciation of eight men. I might mention the names of quite 
a number of well-known citizens still living who belonged 
to these substitute insurance companies. At political meet- 
ings I have often heard some of them shouting “how we 
saved the Union !” 

But we poor chaps, who couldn’t raise one hundred 
let alone eight hundred dollars escaped the draft by en- 
listing. It wasn’t fear of the draft, however, that influ- 
enced us. I was just past eighteen years old, and “liable,” 
but so far as I was concerned I never once thought any- 
thing about being drafted. 

Why I, and the other fellows, came to enlist, is some- 
thing I never could explain. I think I am safe in saying 
that, at the moment, genuine patriotism hardly entered 
into the question. Of course there were some who en- 
listed from patriotic motives ; but when one comes down 
to the bottom facts, I believe a majority of the boys were 
induced to go from other motives. Most probably it was 
the general excitement of the times. It was simply a 
furore to go to the war. To many it was a change from 
the ordinary humdrum of life. To others it was looked 
upon as a picnic. And then in every boy’s heart there is 
an inherent spirit of adventure. 

The orators on the steps of the old bank building had 
said the reason the war had lasted so long already was 
because there were not enough soldiers at the front. But 
now all that would be attended to in short order. With 
the great army that was about to be organized, the war 
couldn’t possibly last more than three months longer. By 
cold weather it would all be over. As said before, what 
particular motive I had in enlisting, beyond an impulse, I 
don’t know, and many of my companions frequently ex- 
pressed a similar opinion. But enlist we did. 

Hugh C. Irish was forming a company for the Thir- 
teenth New Jersey Volunteers. It is in his memory that 
Camp No. 8 of the Sons of Veterans of Paterson is 
named. Mr. Irish had been my employer, as one of the 





The recruits signed the roll on the bottom of a soap box. 


Page ii 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ii 


proprietors of the Guardian For some reason Mr. Irish 
sold out his interest in the Guardian and embarked in the 
grocery business. He had been there but a few months 
when he became convinced that it was his duty to go to 
war. Mr. Irish was one of the men who entered the 
service out of pure loyalty and patriotism. In his case the 
motive was unquestionable. 

Mr. Irish had been authorized to raise a company for 
the Thirteenth Regiment, then forming at Newark, under 
the President’s call, and he was to be the captain. His 
grocery store was transformed into a recruiting office. 
The recruits signed the roll on the bottom of a soap box. 
It was to this place I hastened after hearing the patriotic 
speeches from the steps of the old bank building. What- 
ever hesitation I might have had on the way thither was 
completely knocked out by the tune of “The Girl I Left 
Behind Me,” which was being played on a cracked drum 
and wheezy fife by two “musicians” in baggy clothes 
who had just enlisted themselves. They stood in front of 
the store banging and blowing away for dear life. 

Under ordinary circumstances such music would have 
been rotten-egged. As it was, it was but a noisy echo of 
the spirit of the times, and filled the heart of the listener 
with patriotic emotions that were simply irresistible. No 
one, hearing such martial strains, could resist the war 
influence! I couldn’t. In a very few moments I had 
signed an eagle-headed sheet of paper which bound me, 
“stronger than ropes and cords could bind me,” to the 
service of the United States of America, “for the term 
of three years unless sooner discharged.” 

I had scarcely signed before I began to be sorry. For 
the first time I realized what I had done and began to be 
frightened. But the sight of so many of my friends and 
companions around me soon dissipated that feeling. 
There was “Rats” and “Curt” and “Liv,” besides Captain 
Irish, all from our office. “Rats” was David Harris. 
“Curt” was Curtis Bowne, whose tragic and singular 
death at the battle of Antietam will be noticed later on. 
“Liv” was E. Livingston Allen, now a Methodist min- 
ister. He is the only one of the lot who went into the 
ministry. All those mentioned were printers. Then there 
were James G. Scott (afterward captain) and Hank Van 


12 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Orden, Jim Dougherty, Jack Stansfield, Heber Wells, 
“Ginger” Clark, John Butterworth, “Lem” Smith, John 
Snyder (with the big nose), “Slaughter House Ick,” Dan 
Wannamaker, John J. Carlough, Sandy Kidd, John Nield, 
John Anderson, “Dad” Bush, Reddy Mahar, George 
Comer, William Lambert, Archy McCall, Archy Todd, 
“Jake” Engel, “Jake” Berdan, W. J. Campbell, W. J. 
C&rlough, John Farlow, Thomas Hardy, Joseph H. Pewt- 
ner, Theodore S. Perry, James H. Peterson, and a whole 
lot of other fellows I had known, and some of whom will 
come in for further reference during the course of this 
story. 

The immediate association of all these — the fact that 
so many old acquaintances had enlisted together and 
would go to war together, relieved the event of the lone- 
someness and awfulness of the step. It was simply im- 
possible to remain lonesome and downhearted in com- 
' pany with such a crowd — and many others whose names 
are now beyond memory’s call. And when one comes to 
look at them, they must have been physically a tough set, 
for many of them are yet alive, and some of them do not 
look much older than they did during the war. 

There were a number who felt dubious about enlisting 
in a regiment which was to bear the unlucky number 
“13,” but it wasn’t a superstitious crowd, and that was 
soon forgotten. Nor was it an aristocratic crowd. Nearly 
all were poor working boys. 

A sort of pride fills the heart of the new recruit. He 
imagines that he has already done something brave, 
and rather looks down on those who have not signed the 
roll. When I went to see my girl that night I felt con- 
siderably puffed up. As it was a good-by call, I asked 
for her picture. 

“What,” exclaimed she, “and have some stranger take 
it out of your pocket if you are killed? I guess not.” 

That wasn’t very pleasant. Getting killed wasn’t in the 
bargain. I didn’t feel a bit comfortable at such a gloomy 
possibility. 

But when I left the house I had the picture of a very 
pretty girl in my pocket. The girls of those days were 
patriotic, and he indeed was a poor soldier who had not 
in his pocket a picture of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

IN CAMP. 

A day or so later a squad of recruits for Company K, 
Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers, pro- 
ceeded to Camp Frelinghuysen, Newark. The camp was 
along the canal, in the higher portion of the city. There 
was no railroad then between Paterson and Newark, and 
our contingent went down by Barney Demarest’s stage, 
reaching camp shortly after noon. Many others had pre- 
ceded us. 

When the stage started from Paterson it wasn’t a very 
jolly crowd. Many an eye bore a redness indicative of 
recent tears, for the hardest part of enlisting is the part- 
ing with one’s dear ones at home. There was many an 
affecting scene in many a home the previous night. Not 
that parents and sisters and sweethearts were not pa- 
triotic ; but it was with copious tears that mothers and sis- 
ters, while admitting that the sacrifice was loyal and right, 
bade good-by to the dear boys they might never see again. 
The mother’s tears that had dropped on the soldier’s coat 
sleeves were hardly dry when the boys rode over the 
Main Street cobblestones in Barney Demarest’s rickety 
old stage coach, and the influence of the last embrace and 
farewell kiss was still upon nearly all. 

But human nature is buoyant. Perhaps it was to offset 
the gloomy farewell that the boys soon became boister- 
ously merry, and they made the morning air resound with 
their shouts and their hurrahs and their song of 

“We’re coming, Father Abraham, 

Three hundred thousand more.” 

The stage was gayly decked with flags, the crowds in 
the streets shouted a hearty farewell, and all sorrowful 
thoughts were soon drowned in the noise and racket that 


14 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


was too loud to permit any one to think. A similar noisy 
demonstration greeted us at “Acquackanonk” (Passaic), 
Bloomfield and Newark, and a hurrah arose from the 
throats of the already arrived recruits as we drove past 
the guards at the entrance to Camp Frelinghuysen. The 
armed guards and picket line around the camp was an- 
other evidence that we were no longer free men ; but we 
did not fully appreciate that fact until later. 

And yet the camp presented a picturesque appearance. 
The colonel’s tent stood at the top of the hill. It was a 
large and commodious canvas house. Near by were simi- 
lar but smaller tents for the lieutenant-colonel, major, 
adjutant and quartermaster. Still further down was a 
long row of still smaller tents, occupied by the captains 
and lieutenants. Running at right angles from the latter 
was a row of large, circular tents, occupied by the “en- 
listed men” of each company. These were known as 
“Sibley” tents, and resembled an Indian tepee, with a 
ventilator at the top. These tents would accommodate 
fifteen or twenty men. In our innocence we supposed 
that we were to have these tents right along all through 
the war. For all that we knew, all the soldiers in the army 
had the same commodious and comfortable quarters. We 
were undeceived on this point, however, in the course of 
a very few days. 

Shortly after our arrival we were taken before the 
regimental surgeon for examination. The surgeon was 
Dr. J. J. H. Love, one of the most brusque-appearing 
and yet most kind-hearted men that ever lived. Until his 
recent death he was one of the most respected and promi- 
nent residents of Montclair. 

“Strip,” ordered the doctor. 

There were five or six examined at a time. We boys, 
who never had a pain or qualm in our lives, thought it 
was a needless formality, but were told that it was “ac- 
cording to the regulations.” Then the doctor punched us 
and pinched us, rubbed his hands down our legs as if we 
were so many horses, seized us in the groin, and told us to 
cough, and finally said: 

“Let’s see your teeth.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


iS 


“What do you want to see my teeth for?” I asked. 
“Are we to bite the enemy ?” 

“Something tougher than that,” good-naturedly an- 
swered Dr. Love. “You will have to bite hard-tack and 
chew cartridges, and I guess you will find both tougher 
than any rebel meat you ever will see.” 

I didn’t know then that hard-tack was the stuff soldiers 
were mainly fed upon ; but I found out before long. For 
the information of the reader I will explain that a hard- 
tack is the most deceptive-looking thing in the world. Its 
general appearance is that of a soda cracker, but there the 
resemblance ends. You can bite a soda cracker. A hard- 
tack isn’t tender. Compared with it a block of granilite 
paving stones would be mush. That is the sort of pastry 
the government fed its soldiers upon. Hard-tack must 
have been referred to in that part of the Bible where it 
says “he asked for bread and they gave him a stone.” A 
further corroboration of this conclusion lies in the positive 
fact that every box of hard-tack that ever arrived in the 
army was marked : 

“B. C. 348,764,” 

the variation being only in the figure. The “B. C.” was 
on every box. And judging from the antediluvian tough- 
ness of some of the crackers, the prehistoric ancient who 
stencilled on the figures either accidentally or wilfully 
post dated the box several thousand years. 

What “chewing cartridges” meant, I hadn’t the slight- 
est conception of, but learned that subsequently. That my 
teeth were apparently equal to the emergency of both 
biting hard-tack and chewing cartridges, however, must 
have been a matter satisfactory to Dr. Love, for I success- 
fully passed the ordeal of a “surgical examination.” 

The next thing was to go to the quartermaster’s and 
get our uniform and equipments. What a lot of things 
there were ! 

There were undershirts and drawers and thick stock- 
ings, all supposed to be of wool, but apparently mainly 
composed of thistles and sticks — the coarsest things a man 
ever put next to his skin. And it was midsummer at that ! 
Then there were a pair of light blue trousers, a dark blue 
blouse, a dark blue dress coat, a heavy, caped light blue 


i6 


THE YOUNG VQLUNTEER 


overcoat, a knit cardigan jacket, a forage cap, a heavy 
woolen blanket, a thick rubber blanket, and a pair of 
heavy brogans. These were the clothes. Added to this 
were a knapsack, a haversack, a canteen, a cartridge belt, 
a bayonet belt, and an Enfield rifle. 

As the men were called up, the clothing, etc., were 
thrown in front of each one in a pile, and utterly regard- 
less of fit or size. When the recruits repaired to their 
tents and donned the uniform, they presented a ludicrous 
appearance. 

“How do I look, boys?” asked Hank Van Orden, as 
he emerged from his corner. 

“Hank” was a sight to behold. Nature had been gener- 
ous with him as to legs and arms, and as luck would have 
it, t he had got a small-sized suit. The bottom of his 
trousers didn’t come down to his shoe tops, while his arms 
stuck several inches beyond the end of his blouse sleeves. 
The shoes were too tight and his cap was stuck on the 
back of his head in a comical fashion. 

“Don’t laugh at me. Look at Heber,” said Hank. 

There stood Heber Wells, dressed up in a suit Van 
Orden ought to have had. His trousers were turned up 
at -the bottom like a dude’s of the present day, while the 
sleeves of his coat fit like a Chinaman’s. His cap came 
down to his ears. 

Robust Abe Godwin couldn’t button his clothes about 
him, while slim Johnny Nield had twice as much uniform 
as he wanted. In fact, while there were different-sized 
suits, no man had got a suit anywhere near fitting, and a 
more incongruous lot of noble soldiers could not be imag- 
ined. Falstaff’s army was simply nowhere. But the diffi- 
culty was in a measure overcome by exchanging suits, an 
operation that took nearly all the afternoon. Still they 
didn’t fit. But nobody but a raw recruit would spend 
more than a moment thinking about the fit of his uniform. 

The clothes were awfully uncomfortable. The absence 
of a vest was particularly noticeable. “Enlisted men” in 
the army never wear vests. There was a nasty smell of 
dye-stuff. The coarse underclothes tickled and irritated, 
the heavy brogans for men who were used to gaiters and 
Oxford ties were disagreeably clumsy. And, above all, 



i l 


How do I look, boys ?” asked Hank Van Orden. 


Page 16 









































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i7 

the wearing of woolen stockings a quarter of an inch 
thick, in the August dog days, fairly capped the climax. 

“Fall in for your rations.” 

Such was the cry we heard for the first time, about 6 
o’clock. None of us knew what “fall in” meant; but 
Heber Wells, who had been selected as orderly sergeant, 
told us it was to get into a line, one after the other. 

“Forward march!” said Heber. 

It is the rule in the army to step off first with the left 
foot, but we didn’t know that. Some started with the 
left and some with the right, and the whole line came 
near stumbling over each other. After going to the lower 
end of the company street, the new orderly cried out: 

“File left.” 

Heber took hold of the leading man and twirled him 
to the left, and the rest of us followed. Otherwise none 
of us would have known what to do. 

“Where did he learn so much military ?” was the ques- 
tion everybody was asking about Wells. We at once 
began to look to him as a marvel of tactical knowledge. 
The fact is this was all the tactics Heber knew, and he 
had just been told that much ! 

The “cook house,” where we went for our rations, 
wasn’t a house at all. It was all outdoors. A couple 
of forked pieces of wood held a horizontal pole, and on 
this were three or four big sheet-iron pails or kettles, 
under which a cordwood fire was burning, with much 
smoke. There was a similar “cook house” at the lower 
end of each company street. As each man filed past he 
was given a tin cup, filled with black coffee (no milk) 
already sweetened, a tin plate filled with beans and pork, 
and a hunk of bread. We were told to take care of our 
“crockery,” and bring them to the cook house whenever 
“rations” were called. 

“Where’s the knife and fork and spoon?” John Butter- 
worth wanted to know. 

“You’re a nice fellow,” replied Jake Engle, “to think 
soldiers have forks and spoons. Use your fingers — they 
were made before forks.” Neither were there any 
napkins. 

The men took their rations and sat down about their 


i8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


tents to eat their first meal as real soldiers. Coffee with- 
out milk was not very palatable, at the start, but from 
that time on, for many, many months, the majority of 
these soldier boys never saw such a thing as milk. Milk- 
less coffee isn’t so bad when one is once used to it, and 
coffee was the mainstay of the army. What a soldier in 
active service would do without his pint of coffee three 
times a day is a serious question. 

It was also awkward to eat pork and beans without 
knife, fork or spoon. But with the aid of pocket knives, 
and wooden spoons made out of a sliver from a board, the 
recruits soon learned to eat soldier fashion, and they soon 
found out, also, that beans spread upon bread was a fair 
substitute for butter. 

What a picnic it was! What a free, airy life! Who 
wouldn’t be a soldier? To tell the truth, the novelty of 
the thing was interesting. 

After supper we heard some sort of a commotion up 
by Captain Irish’s tent. There was a crowd of men stand- 
ing there, from the midst of which, at frequent intervals, 
there was a momentary glimpse of a man being projected 
a considerable height into the air. It was “initiation.” 

“Come, Joe, you’re next,” was the salute I got, and 
before I could remonstrate I was seized bodily and 
thrown headlong upon a big blanket, surrounded by the 
men who were holding it. The blanket hung slack in the 
middle. 

“One! Two! Three! Hip!” 

The men pulled the blanket taut, and up I was pro- 
jected, ten or fifteen feet into the air. Coming down, one 
landed head first or feet first or sideways, just as it might 
happen, and then, up again ! Three times was the ordeal, 
and the “candidate” was “initiated.” Every man in the 
company had to go through it. 

“Now for the captain,” cried Hank Van Orden, who 
seemed to be the ringleader. 

“Oh, no,” replied Lieutenant Scott, with dignity. “The 
officers are exempt.” 

“Guess not,” said Hank, and over went Scott into the 
blanket. 

Captain Irish good-naturedly offered no resistance, and 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


19 


he was tossed also. Poor fellow, he little knew that in less 
than a month his dead body would be in possession of the 
enemy in one of the bloodiest battlefields of the war. 

The same “initiation” was being enacted all along the 
line, and as there were seven or eight hundred recruits in 
camp, it may be imagined that it was a lively scene. 

Then the boys gathered around their tents, or the cook 
fire, smoked their pipes, told stories and sang songs, until 
9 o’clock, when the “tattoo” roll was called and half an 
hour later a few single strokes on the drum indicated 
“taps,” and lights were ordered out. 

My chum that night was John Butterworth, and when 
he prepared for “bed” he created a yell of laughter by 
saying : 

“Say, boys, I forgot to bring my night shirt.” 

The most of us, however, slept in all our clothes, except 
our coats and shoes. With a blanket under us and a 
blanket over us, and knapsacks for pillows we were quite 
comfortable as to warmth, but goodness, how hard the 
ground was ! It was the first time I had ever slept on the 
ground, and there was an uncomfortable dampness that 
came from it that was not pleasant, even in midsummer. 
Through the flaps of the tent and the ventilator at the top 
one could see the bright stars, and there was a peculiar 
outdoor “looseness” to the sensation that was quite un- 
canny. 

As for sleeping ! Well, with the catcalls and shouts and 
yells, the snatches of song, and cries of “Get on your own 
side of the bed,” and “Give me half of the sheet, will 
you?” and such things, the hullabaloo was kept up until 
long after midnight. And after that the snoring began. 
All sorts of snores. Double bass, tenor, baritone. Snores 
like a grandfather bullfrog and snores like a sick calf’s 
bleat. Snores that would awaken the dead or make the 
devil laugh. You never heard such a miscellaneous job lot 
of snores in your life. 

But all things have an end, and even the outrageous 
snoring finally produced such a soporific effect that we 
all slept soundly. 


20 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER III. 

'‘fall in.” 

We were aroused at an outlandishly early hour by an 
indescribable conglomeration of discords outside some- 
where. All the boys, as they tried to untangle their stif- 
fened limbs from the blankets, rubbed their eyes in an un- 
certain, mystified way that was very comical. 

It was a strange feeling. Where were we? What 
noise was that? What makes the bedroom look so mar- 
velously unfamiliar this morning? Are we dreaming? 
Who are all these men lying and stretching about ? And 
all in bed with their clothes on — blue clothes. 

Is it a dream ? Is the dim remembrance of doing some- 
thing unusual — of entering into a new life — actual reality, 
or have we had the nightmare ? Lets see. Did we enlist 
into the army yesterday, or didn’t we? The other men 
are kicking off the blankets, reaching for their shoes, rub- 
bing their half-opened eyes, and grunting and groaning 
from the stiffness caused by the hard bed and damp earth, 
and again there is that discordant racket outside. 

It is the first attempt of the new fifer and drummer to 
sound the reveille — the “get up bell” we were destined to 
hear every morning for three years — “unless sooner dis- 
charged.” No wonder such an outrageous musical at- 
tempt woke us up. It was enough to awaken the dead. 

“Reveille — fall in for roll call.” 

It was the voice of Heber Wells, the orderly sergeant. 

“Refille? Vot’s dot, alretty?” asked John Ick, who was 
destined to become the funniest Dutchman, most awkward 
recruit, unceasing and chronic kicker in the company, and 
yet one of the bravest of soldiers in action. Poor fellow, 
he fell early, pierced by a rebel bullet. But John was as 
ignorant as the rest of us on military orders, and “re- 
veille” was something new. 



Well, that, in army parlance, is ‘ 


police duty.” 


> 


Page 21 






















































•fl 

> 




. 








































. 










THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


21 


“I tole you vot dot vash,” said he. “Dot vas break- 
fasht.” 

And he got his tin plate and cup, and piled out with the 
crowd. A lot of others were similarly equipped, to the in- 
tense astonishment of Captain Irish, who had turned out 
to see the first reveille roll call. 

“Fall in — fall in according to size/’ was the order. 

This meant that the men should get in a line, with the 
tallest man at the head of the class and the shortest one at 
the foot. Hank Van Orden thus stood at the right of the 
line and Sandy Kidd at the left, and the captain told us 
that ever after we were to get ourselves together in that 
shape whenever we heard the order to “Fall in.” 

The roll was called. It was a sleepy looking crowd — 
there were about ninety — and as a matter of fact the sol- 
diers were always a sleepy lot at reveille roll call. Before 
dismissing the company, after finding all the members 
“present or accounted for,” Orderly Wells picked out ten 
men to do “police duty.” The rest of us were for the 
present dismissed. 

A matutinal ablution is naturally one of the first duties 
of every man. Soldiers are no exception. Then we began 
for the first time to experience the utter inadequacy of the 
toilet accommodations supplied by Uncle Sam to his brave 
defenders. There were not many houses provided with 
the luxury of a bathroom in those days ; but the most of 
us at least had become used to the accommodations of a 
wash-bowl and pitcher and a clean towel. We hadn’t 
even the towel. The canal at the foot of the camp, how- 
ever, afforded an all-sufficient supply of water, and the 
tails or sleeves of our coats served as towels. Johnny 
Nield had a pocket comb, and that was passed around. 

We went up to see how the new policemen were getting 
along — the ten men who had been picked out to do “police 
duty.” We naturally supposed that meant to stand guard 
around the camp and look fierce; but it wasn’t. To 
“police” a camp means to clean it up. You’ve seen the 
street department gang with their brooms and hoes clean- 
ing the dirt out of the gutters. Well, that, in army par- 
lance, is “police duty.” If a real policeman were called 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


22 

upon to perform that “duty” he would kick like a steer. 
Whoever heard of a policeman working ? 

The new recruits “kicked,” too, but it was no use. 
There was a bookkeeper from one of the mills, two Main 
street dry goods clerks with soft hands, a printer and a 
cotton manufacturer working for dear life in the “chain 
gang” as they were dubbed, and bossed by a sergeant who 
used to sell beer in a Dublin gin mill. Oh, but it was 
galling. 

That was one of the hardest features of army life — to 
fall under the command of an officer who was in every 
w<ay — except for his straps or stripes — your inferior. 
Such men, feeling for the first time the pleasures of autoc- 
racy, were the most cruel and relentless taskmasters. But 
they had to be obeyed. Such was discipline. The first 
duty of a soldier is obedience — no matter if your “supe- 
rior officer” be an ignorant, boorish bully you wouldn’t 
have recognized in civil life. My old employer had said it 
was a good thing for me to go into the army, because I 
needed discipline. I would never recognize a “boss,” and 
was the most independent young American in the United 
States. That was something the army life would cure me 
of. My old employer was right. I soon had the inde- 
pendence knocked out of me. I was soon thoroughly 
“disciplined.” But in that respect, doubtless, I have since 
retrograded. 

“Fall in for rations,” was the next order, and John Ick 
made another dive for his tin plate and cup. He was 
perennially hungry, was John. 

“Itsch ‘vail in’ all de times,” said he, “but I don’d mind 
him a little ven dot means some tings to eat, ain’t it ?” 

The breakfast was like the supper the night before, with 
the exception that boiled beef was substituted for the pork 
and beans. Somehow it didn’t seem very tasty. We 
missed the customary muffins and chops and eggs, and 
the cream in our coffee. But still it went. It had to. It 
was that or nothing. No sooner was breakfast over than 
it was again : 

“Fall in, Company K !” 

This time it was to pick out a detail for guard duty, and 
the ten men selected were instructed to be ready to fall in 
again a little before 9 o’clock, “fully armed and equipped.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


23 


I escaped this “draft,” but with the others anxiously 
awaited the time to see the first “guard mount.” 

A little before 9 o’clock a drum beat called out the guard 
detail — and there appeared the ten men “fully armed and 
equipped.” They had on everything the government had 
given them. Although a midsummer evening, they per- 
spired under their heavy overcoats. They had their knap- 
sacks, haversacks and canteens, their belts and ammuni- 
tion boxes and their muskets — all ready to go to war. It 
was a funny sight. Some of the knapsacks were perched 
upon the shoulders like the hump of a hunchback, while 
others hung at the bottom of the back, like a “Grecian 
bend.” Two of the men carried their haversacks in their 
left hands, as if they were satchels. 

Even the captain had to laugh. He explained to them- 
that they only required their blouses and arms, and told 
them to leave their knapsacks,, haversacks and canteens in 
the tents. After some coaching they were finally arranged 
right and formed into line. 

“Now,” said Sergeant Wells, “all you have got to do is 
to follow your file leader.” 

“Vot vash dot vile leeder, Mr. Wells?” asked John Ick., 

“Don’t talk while in fhe ranks. Don’t you know better 
than that ?” asked Wells, with a comical assumption of in- 
sulted dignity. 

“Dot’s all ri-et, Mister Wells. Dot’s all riet; but how 
in dunderwedder we don’t know some tings ven we don’t 
ask nobotty already ?” 

Without deigning to reply the orderly gave the order to 
“right face,” and twirled Hank Von Orden around to the 
right. Then began the command : 

“Forward, march!” 

And taking Hank by the elbow, he led him as he would 
a team of oxen, around the head of the company street 
and toward the place in the middle of the camp where a 
fife was tooting and a drum beating, and an already as- 
sembled crowd indicated that something was going on. 
The appearance of Company K’s guard detail on that oc- 
casion was like a crowd of political heelers marching 
toward a barroom on the invitation of the candidates. 
There would be just about as much military precision in 
the latter as there was in the former. 


24 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Here let me explain. The Thirteenth Regiment was 
recruited in Newark, Orange, Belleville, Montclair, 
Bloomfield, Caldwell, Millburn, Jersey City and Paterson. 
There were two companies from Paterson — Company C, 
commanded by Captain Ryerson, and Company K, by 
Captain Irish. Not more than two companies were from 
one place, so that to a great degree the men were strangers 
to each other. The extent of friendship from previous 
acquaintance was consequently limited, but nine or ten 
hundred men who were thus brought together soon be- 
came quite well acquainted with each other. 

Ten men from each of the ten companies, one hundred 
altogether, had been detailed for guard duty that day. 
The other eight hundred or so gathered around as specta- 
tors. 

Colonel Carman stood on one side of the field, gor- 
geously attired, with a ferocious look on his face. He had 
already served some time in an official position in another 
regiment, and was regarded as a veteran. Before the war 
Colonel Carman was an humble clerk in some New York 
store. So he was, I understand, after the departure of his 
military glory ; but he was afterward honored by being 
made commissioner in charge of the Antietam battlefield. 

But the colonel certainly looked ferocious and brave 
enough that morning to whip the whole rebel army alone. 
A short distance in front of him was Adjutant Charles A. 
Hopkins. Now there is always something fussy and 
featherish about an adjutant, and Lieutenant Hopkins was 
no exception ; but under his showy exterior there was as 
true and brave and sympathetic a heart as ever beat 
against the padded breast of a military officer. 

The adjutant is usually the boss of a guard mount. 
The presence of the colonel occasionally, is to add impres- 
siveness and dignity. In actual service his place is usually 
substituted by the red-sashed officer who has been de- 
tailed as “officer of the day.” He is the general superin- 
tendent and high-cock-a-lorum of the camp for the twenty- 
four hours for which he is appointed. An inferior officer, 
usually a lieutenant, is similarly selected as “officer of the 
guard.” 

But the “guard mount” was about to begin, and we 
watched the proceeding with all the eyes we had. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

GUARD MOUNT AND DRILL. 

This chapter does not purpose to be an accurate de- 
scription of the details of military tactics. I will only de- 
scribe the “guard mount’’ as I then saw it — as it would 
appear to any person for the first time. 

The positions of the principal officers were described in 
the preceding chapter. Down in the field further, drawn 
up in a line, were ten fifers and ten drummers playing for 
dear life. It was the first time they had played together, 
and the orchestral effects were anything but harmonious. 
These musicians seemed to be the central cluster or nu- 
cleus around which the others were to gather, like a lot of 
bees swarming. 

From every company street there marched, or rather 
straggled, a squad of ten soldiers, commanded — perhaps I 
should say led — by a sergeant. The first gang marched 
around until it came to the musicians. Then another ten 
would come along until it reached the tail end of the first, 
and so on, until the whole ten times ten were standing in 
a row or string. 

It would have made an old army officer drop dead to 
see the way the men were carrying their muskets. They 
had had no drill. Half of them had never before seen, let 
alone handled, a rifle. Some carried them on one shoulder 
and some on the other. Here you would see a gun held 
up stiff and straight like a flagstaff, and the next man 
would hold it jauntily in the crook of his elbow. The 
“line” was about as near being straight as a horseshoe. 
Somebody yelled : 

“Front !” 

One of the boys, who had once served in a hotel office, 
was at the point of rushing forward, but he could see no 
counter to run to. No one else stirred. 


26 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“Front !” again commanded the adjutant. But still no- 
body moved, except to look helplessly at his companions. 
Many of them thought maybe it was the army way of 
saying grace, or something of that sort. No one had ever 
heard “Front” before. The adjutant became excited. 

“All turn this way, and look at me,” shouted the adju- 
tant. 

“Vy dond you say dod pefore,” cried out John Ick. 

“Silence in the ranks. When I say ‘Front/ you turn 
to the front, that’s all.” 

“Dot’s all ri-et, Mister Hopkins,” replied John Ick. 
“I’se a lookin’ at you, don’t it?” 

“Silence !” yelled the officer, “or you’ll go to the guard- 
house.” 

“Can’t a man say nottings all the time?” murmured Ick. 

Poor John ! He was marched off to the guardhouse, 
whatever that meant. None of us knew. It must be 
something awful. 

“Dress up !” 

Not a man stirred. 

“Dress up, I say. Dress to the right !” commanded the 
adjutant, and stepping up to the end of the string he 
looked along the edge and gave the order again : 

“Right — dress !” 

Every man looked carefully over himself. Everybody 
seemed to have on his right dress ! They were all dressed 
right. They were looking everywhere except to the right. 

“What a lot of idiots,” shouted Lieutenant Hopkins. 
“Just turn your eyes this way and get into a straight 
line.” A general shuffle was the result. There was some 
sort of a commotion in Company K’s detachment. 

“What’s the matter here?” asked the adjutant, coming 
over. “Why don’t you get in a straight line ?” 

“Can’t,” replied Davy Harris. “Just look at John 
Snyder’s nose !” 

“Silence in the ranks!” 

“See here,” asked Lem Smith, “am I to take my bear- 
ings from Pop Farlow’s fat belly, or from that spindle- 
shanked Anderson ?” 

“Silence in the ranks, or you’ll go to the guardhouse,” 
was the only reply. 



Poor John ? He was marched off to the guard house. 


Page 26 




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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


27 


Silence resulted. One man was already in the guard- 
house, and an awful ignorance of what sort of horrible 
torture he might at that moment' be undergoing made the 
warning sufficient. 

Finally the adjutant got the men tolerably straight, 
and then the drummers and filers marched down in front 
of the line, turned around and marched back again, play- 
ing “When Johnnie Comes Marching Home Again” the 
while. Then the adjutant stepped forward, turned on his 
heel, turned to the left, marched along to the middle of 
the parade, turned on his heel to the right, marched a few 
paces toward the colonel, and then turned completely 
around as if on a pivot. He gave the order to “Present 
arms !” 

But no pretense was made of obeying it, inasmuch as 
no one in the ranks knew the difference between present 
arms and a lame leg. But just as if it had all been done 
according to Hoyle, or rather according to Hardee, the 
adjutant turned around facing the colonel, and bringing 
his sword up to his nose, dropped it with a curving sweep, 
like a farmer with a scythe. The adjutant said some- 
thing to the colonel and the colonel said something to the 
adjutant, and some orders were given which no one 
understood. 

Then with much confusion and trouble the men in the 
line were twisted around into platoons and marched past 
the colonel in about the order of a mob coming out of a 
circus, and then off to the guardhouse. As a military 
maneuver it was simply atrocious. Had Kaiser Wilhelm 
been there he would have thrown himself into the canal 
with ineffable disgust. But the spectators thought it was 
grand. When the Thirteenth Regiment got to the front 
and the enemy saw what they could do, the rebellion would 
be speedily ended! Indeed, had the Confederates wit- 
nessed a guard mount like that they would have thought 
it some new sort of tactics they didn’t understand, and 
would doubtless have immediately surrendered. 

The guards were put on duty around the camp. In the 
army the men go on guard duty for two hours and have 
a four-hour rest, and then go on again, and so on for the 
twenty-four hours. The duty of the guards was to let 


28 


THE YOU&G VOLUNTEER 


no one out of the camp, without a pass, and no visitors in 
— except at the gates. 

We fellows who were not on guard were congratulating 
ourselves with having nothing to do when suddenly there 
was another drum beat, followed by the order: 

“Fall in, Company K, for drill !” 

The men hastily put on their belts, picked up their 
guns, and ran out to “get into a string,” which we had 
learned by this time was the proper thing to do on hearing 
the order to “fall in.” A sergeant who had served three 
months already and was therefore supposed to know all 
about war, was detailed to instruct us. He was an 
arrogant brute, as such men usually are, and gave his 
orders as if we were slaves. 

Many a man’s face flushed at being called “fool,” 
“idiot,” and worse names, when the sergeant became an- 
gry with our clumsiness and awkwardness. When we 
started we thought a “file” was something used by ma- 
chinists, a “wheel” was part of the running gear of a 
wagon, and that when the order was to “shoulder arms,” 
it meant to hold our guns on our shoulders, instead of 
holding them straight up at our sides. It had been “carry” 
arms, under the “Hardee” tactics, but Casey’s revision was 
just being introduced, and the same movement was desig- 
nated as “shoulder arms.” 

But how that relentless sergeant did drill us ! He made 
us handle the guns in different shapes until they seemed to 
weigh half a ton, and our arms ached. And he marched 
us up and down and hither and thither until we were 
completely tired out with the unwonted exercise. It was 
in dog days, too, and the hot clothing and thick, scratchy 
shirts made us perspire until we were soaked. Being a 
soldier wasn’t so much fun after all. We were glad 
enough when finally, at noon, we were dismissed for our 
dinner. 

With the exception of soup for the main dish, dinner 
was similar to the other meals. We were beginning to 
get it through our heads that the prospects were bad for 
any very great variety in the menu. But it “went,” for 
we were hungry, and our post, prandial briarwood pipes 
were hugely enjoyed. Just as we were thinking of crawl- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


29 


ing into the tent for a snooze, again came that everlasting 
order : 

“Fall in for drill 

This was too much ! What, drill twice a day ? We 
would speak to the captain about it. 

But the afternoon drill was worse yet, for it was a 
regimental drill — that is a drill of the entire regiment 
together. The colonel, who had seen some service, bossed 
this job. Now in a regimental drill a fellow has to walk 
about ten times as much as in a company drill, and we 
were soon so tired that we couldn’t go any more. 

The colonel saw this, and gave us some more instruct 
tion in the manual of arms, and for the first time showed 
us how to load the guns. 

“Load in nine times — load/’ 

Such was the order. We had been served with blank 
cartridges, and were told to simply go through the mo- 
tion of loading. But Sandy Kidd failed to hear this, and 
before he was discovered he had loaded his gun nine 
times — that is, put nine cartridges into the barrel. What 
the nine “times” meant was the nine different motions 
that are necessary in loading a gun according to the tac- 
tics. During the latter part of the drill the colonel thought 
he would see how the regiment would do in an actual 
shoot. So he marched us around by the canal and once 
more went through the process of “loading in nine times.” 

. Then I discovered why Dr. Love had so carefully ex- 
amined our teeth. One of the orders was to “tear cart- 
ridges.” Now the cartridges of those days were not the 
metallic affairs used at the present time. Breech-loading 
guns had hardly been introduced and our old muskets 
were loaded at the muzzle, like an old-fashioned shotgun. 
The cartridges containing the powder were made of paper. 
It was a thick brown paper, as tough as is used in a hard- 
ware store. One had to insert the end of the cartridge 
between the teeth and tear it open. Nothing but the 
stoutest teeth could stand this ordeal. And, ugh ! how salt 
and nasty the powder tasted ! 

But we are finally loaded, cocked and primed. In order 
to make a grander effect for the assembled audience, we 


3 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


were strung along the towpath of the canal. Then the 
colonel gave the order : 

“Ready ! Aim ! Fire !” 

Now I had never shot off a gun in my life. I only 
knew you had to hold it up to the shoulder and pull the trig- 
ger. When the colonel said “aim” my hands shook in a 
manner that would have made it perfectly safe for a man 
to stand directly in front of the muzzle. When the order 
came to “fire” I shut my eyes tight and pulled the trigger ! 

Bang! 

Was I kicked by a mule ? A stinging blow on my right 
shoulder nearly knocked me off my feet, and I thought my 
arm was dislocated. For a moment I feared I was shot 
myself. I never knew before tha-t a gun “kicked.” It 
was simply the “kick” of the musket on being discharged. 
But it was a surprise party for me. 

The first man to “fall in an engagement” in the Thir- 
teenth Regiment was Sandy Kidd. When the rackety 
“volley,” about as simultaneous as a pack of exploding 
firecrackers, had stopped, there lay Sandy Kidd, sprawl- 
ing on his back at the bottom of the towpath. 

He had shot off all the nine cartridges in his gun at 
once ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3i 


CHAPTER V. 

MUSTERED IN — DESERTED. 

Before the regimental drill was dismissed, Colonel Car- 
man had announced that “dress parade” would be dis- 
pensed with that afternoon. Goodness, was there any- 
thing more? Is a soldier’s work never done? 

No, never. From that time on, during all the years of 
service, whenever in camp, there was that same everlasting 
routine of guard mount and squad or company drill in the 
morning, and a regimental or “battalion” drill (as it was 
more commonly called) in the afternoon, winding up with 
the perennial dress parade at 4 or 6 o’clock. A “dress 
parade” is a guard mount on a larger scale, and is the 
formal display of “the pomp and panoply of war.” But 
so many people are familiar with “dress parades” that it 
is unnecessary to describe them. 

We were awfully tired that night ; but we were aroused 
to interest by the announcement that on that evening we 
would “elect our officers.” 

What a farce ! No one in the army ever has a chance 
to vote for officers. The “election” simply consisted in 
the reading of a pronunciamento or order that Hugh C. 
Irish had been elected captain ; James G. Scott, first lieu- 
tenant, and so on, and that the captain had selected “the 
following sergeants and corporals.” And at the end of it 
was “Approved — Ezra A. Carman, Colonel Commanding ; 
Charles A. Hopkins, First Lieutenant and Adjutant.” 
That was the way we “elected” our officers. 

There was little variation in camp life for several days. 
It was the same old routine of guard mount and drill, and 
“fall in for rations.” We began to get used to the un- 
wonted exercise and the outdoor air and work was harden- 
ing the muscles and improving the general health. 

There was a constant stream of visitors, including many 


32 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ladies ; and the latter came around to the tents and chatted 
to “the boys” with an unconventional familiarity and sis- 
terly affection utterly unknown in ordinary life. This 
was a new phase of existence that was very interesting. 
They brought us many luxuries, and some of the boys re- 
ceived big boxes from home, containing pies and cakes 
and other toothsome things that greatly enhanced our bill 
of fare. And there was a continuous round of pranks 
and practical jokes and song singing and amateur enter- 
tainments in the evening, till at last we were constrained 
to exclaim : “Well, this is a picnic !” 

On August 24, 1862, the announcement was made that 
on the following afternoon the Thirteenth Regiment 
would be “mustered in.” This was something new, and 
created great excitement. 

When a man “enlists” he, so to speak, gets into his 
coffin. When he is “mustered,” Undertaker Uncle Sam 
has put on the lid and screwed it down. When a man de- 
serts the service after being “mustered in” he is shot. 

About 3 o’clock the next afternoon the regiment was 
drawn up as if in dress parade. While somewhat im- 
proved in military movements from the four or five days’ 
drill, yet it was anything but an imposing spectacle from 
a professional point of view. The line was straggling and 
broken and uncertain, and there was a painful absence of 
that self-possessed nonchalance that characterizes the ex- 
perienced soldier. But there we stood, 937 of us — 38 of- 
ficers and 899 non-commissioned officers and privates, at 
parade rest, with the perspiration trickling down our faces 
and we forbidden to wipe it off ! 

From the knot of officers gathered at the flank of the 
parade stepped forth one more gorgeous, more self-pos- 
sessed, more airish than the others. Ah ! he was a man 
who understood his business! He must be a major-gen- 
eral at least! 

Bah! The single strips of bullion at the end of his 
shoulder straps indicated that he was nothing but a first 
lieutenant! And yet he was a First Lieutenant with a 
capital “L” and a still bigger “F.” 

Maybe you don’t understand the awful dignity that sur- 
rounded a “mustering officer,” like a dazzling halo ! As 











v- 


















• 








■ £ 








“ Repeat after me the following oath.” 


Page 33 










THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


33 


the drum-major of a band is more gorgeous in make-up 
than the colonel of a regiment, so is a mustering officer 
more indescribably magnificent in general bearing than the 
commander of the whole army. The chief qualification 
of a mustering officer seemed to be his capacity for put- 
ting on airs. 

The more airs he could put on the better. No soldier 
ever heard of a plain, unassuming, courteous mustering 
officer. It is his business to be otherwise. 

The iridescent specimen of military grandeur that daz- 
zled our eyes and filled our hearts with apprehension, as if 
we were the serfs and he the czar, was, we were told, 
“Louis D. Watkins, First Lieutenant, Fifth United States 
Cavalry.” A regular officer. Phew ! A West Point 
graduate, perhaps. And a cavalry officer, too. The cav- 
alry officers always considered themselves so much higher 
than infantry officers. In reality they were, in the march 
— about five feet higher — when mounted. 

Behind him was a private soldier with his rifle and 
another carrying the rolls of the regiment, on which was 
every man's name, the color of his eyes and hair, his 
height, complexion, color, age, and “previous condition of 
servitude.” 

“At-ten-shun !” commanded he, with that peculiar in- 
flexion only attainable after considerable service 

“Hats off!” 

“Hands up!” 

When, after milch confusion, it was arranged that each 
man held his hat in his left hand and upheld his right, 
the mustering officer began: 

“Repeat after me the following oath: I, Louis D. 
Watkins ” 

“I, Louis D. Watkins,” came the grand chorus from 
the assembled thousand. I don't know how they ever 
came to do it so well in concert. It sounded as if it came 
from one gigantic throat. 

‘‘No — no — no,”, interrupted the mustering officer. 
“Each man say his own name. Now, I, John Smith — or 
whatever it may be.” 

A low murmur of many names followed, as each man 
pronounced his own, followed by “whatever it may be.” 


34 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


John Ick was slow of comprehension, and he came out be- 
hind all the rest, and it made everybody laugh to hear his. 

“May pe !” 

Lieutenant Watkins pretended not to notice this un- 
necessary addition to the oath, but went on : 

“Do solemnly ” 

“Solemnly,” chorused the regiment. 

— r“Emly, from John Ick. 

“Swear that I will bear ” continued the mustering 

officer. 

The regiment responded, while loud and husky came 
John 'Ick with his 

—“Bear.” 

“True faith and allegiance.” 

The nine hundred responded on schedule time — all but 
John Ick, who nearly upset the whole business with his 
ringing: 

— “Vatty elegance.” 

“To the United States of America,” continued the mus- 
tering officer. 

The regiment responded, and so it went on with the 
rest of the oath, viz : 

— “Against all her enemies whatsoever: That I will 
obey the orders of the President of the United States and 
of the officers appointed over me, according to the rules 
and articles of war. So help me God.” 

And John Ick came in at the tail end about three words 
behind as usual. But as If that wasn’t enough he added 
something of his own in the shape of a loud “Amen.” He 
naturally imagined that anything so near like a prayer 
was not quite complete without an “amen” at the end of 
it. 

The oath, although as ironclad as the whole power and 
force of the United States government can make it, isn’t 
in itself very long, but the slow process of repetition had 
necessitated our holding up our hands for what seemed 
an age, and our arms ached. It was with intense satis- 
faction and relief, therefore, that we received the orders : 

“Hands down ! Hats on !” 

The pompous mustering officer, with a show of dignity 
that would have done credit to a czar or a kaiser, then 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


35 


formally and awfully announced, that he, he — with a big 
H, Louis D. Watkins, by the authority with which he was 
vested (and otherwise clothed), then and there and here 
and now did declare that the officers and men of the 
Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers were 
duly mustered into the service of the United States, to 
serve for the period of three years unless sooner dis- 
charged. 

The nail was clinched. 

The oolonel then stepped forward and ordered the of- 
ficers to approach, which they did, and when standing in 
front of him in a tolerably straight line, he addressed them 
in a few words that the rest of us could not hear. As the 
officers came back to lead their companies to their streets, 
something on their faces told us all that there was some- 
thing unusually important on hand. 

There was. Before the companies were dismissed the 
captain informed the men that the situation of affairs at 
Washington was so precarious that the President had or- 
dered the Thirteenth Regiment to come on at once. Simi- 
lar orders had been sent to every regiment in the country 
in process of formation. 

“Captain,” said one of the men, “we were to have a 
furlough before we started ; we wanted to take our citi- 
zens’ suits back home and bid our families good-by, and 
we want to get a few articles to take along with us. 
Wasn’t this understood ?” 

“Yes,” replied Captain Irish ; “but in times of war any 
programme may be changed and all that we have to do is 
to obey orders.” 

“Is that fair?” asked John Snyder. 

“Don’t talk in the ranks,” said the captain. 

“No, you,” said John Ick knowingly, “dond you talk by 
the ranks, or you’ll go by the garthous ; ven you carry a 
stick of dot gord wood up and down for an hour, alretty, 
you dond talk no more by the ranks, by gum.” 

“Silence!” shouted the captain. 

“Gimminney,” said Ick, sotto voice, “I pelief I vas talk- 
ing mine own selluff, and didn’t know it.” 

The recruits broke ranks with much kicking. They 
had fully expected a furlough before going to the front. 


36 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


There were ominous whispers and knowing winks that 
night. Something was up. 

In the morning there were not a dozen men in camp. 
Even the guards had disappeared, leaving their guns 
sticking bayonet down in the ground. 

Practically the entire regiment had deserted ! 

What an inglorious end to our career as soldiers ! And 
not mustered in half a day yet. 

How it all happened the next chapter will relate. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


37 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE EVE OF DEPARTURE. 

As stated in the preceding chapter, the entire Thirteenth 
Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers had deserted, almost 
in a body, at the very first intimation of active service. 
Not that they were like that famous character: 

“First in peace, last in war.” 

Nor even like that historical militia organization whose 
first by-law read : 

“Resolved, That in case of war, riot or other unpleas- 
ant disturbance, this company immediately disbands.” 

No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t cowardice. The boys 
simply “wanted to go home.” (They wanted to go home 
many another time before their three years were up, but 
didn’t have the opportunity.) And we believe it is an 
historical fact that this was the only instance during the 
war where eight or nine hundred men deserted and were 
not only not punished, but were not even reprimanded. 

It could hardly be called desertion. The boys simply 
wanted to go home, and they went. They could hardly 
be blamed. All had enlisted and hurried off to camp with 
quite a distinct understanding that they should have a fur- 
lough long enough to fix up things at home, and this idea 
of being so suddenly and unceremoniously projected to 
the very scene of conflict completely upset them. 

The regiment deserted, so to speak, in squads. We had 
previously arranged our respective coteries ; “Davy” Har- 
ris, “Pop” Snyder and I were one of the groups arranged 
in trios, and along toward midnight we marched out of 
camp. One of Company C’s men was on guard at the 
post we had to pass. It did not take him long to stick his 
bayonet in the ground and join us. 

We took the towpath and walked up to Paterson along 
the canal bank, arriving there at 4 or 5 o’clock in the 


3 » 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


morning. It took about twenty-four hours to arrange our 
affairs and say good-by to our friends for the last time. 
It didn’t take me long to settle up my affairs. I deposited 
with a relative the new suit of clothes I had just bought, 
and wrote a letter to my father, who lived in another 
State, that I had enlisted. 

Let me tell you about that suit of clothes. It was in the 
latest fashion. The coat was of a Prince Albert pattern, 
but it came down to about halfway between the knees and 
heels. It was black and white, in squares, each one of the 
squares being as big as the square of a checkerboard. But 
during the four years I was away fashions had changed 
to plain, dark colors, and the coat tail had been abbrevi- 
ated. Had I appeared on the streets in that suit after the 
war, I would have been mobbed. 

The changes in fashions are so gradual that they are 
hardly noticed. But bury yourself, mentally, for four 
years, and the change will be startling. We think noth- 
ing of the absurd things the ladies wear now, but had such 
a ridiculous fashion been projected upon us in all its 
ugliness without an evolutionary endurance— like cutting 
off a dog’s tail by inches — we should be startled, to say 
the least. So that stylish suit, which had cost me twenty- 
one weeks’ wages, was utterly useless after the war was 
over. 

But this is a digression. I didn’t have to save my 
money for clothes now. Uncle Sam furnished them. As 
the late Tune Van Iderstine used to say, there was “Plenty 
for to eat (usually) plenty for to drink (that is, soft 
drinks) and nothing for to pay.” Besides all this we were 
paid the munificent wages of thirteen dollars a month — 
which usually went to sutler or poker, of which more 
anon. 

We straggled back to camp, and in two days every 
man was back again. We expected to be at least scolded, 
if not actually punished; but not a word was said to us 
about our “desertion.” 

There was a more serious look on the men’s faces this 
time, than there was the first time they left home. The 
farewell had been more sorrowful, for it was known to be 
the last time they would meet their loved ones for many 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


39 


months— perhaps years — perhaps forever. Somehow it 
had at first been a sort of picnic — a few days’ excursion. 
Now we began to realize that it really “meant business.” 

But a soldier’s downheartedness doesn’t last long. We 
were kept busy with the final arrangements. We “men” 
expected to be ordered to start every moment. We were 
kept in ignorance, in accordance with “army discipline.” 
Only the officers knew we were not to start before Sun- 
day. 

On Friday we went through that pleasant and delusive 
experience that all regiments went through. We were 
presented with a flag by the ladies. Flag presentations 
were too common in those days to indulge in silk. It was 
an ordinary everyday bunting flag. A clergyman made 
the speech for the ladies and the colonel responded for the 
regiment. 

I think I felt then my first thrill of patriotism. The 
Stars and Stripes never before looked as they did then. 
As the breeze rippled through the folds it seemed as if a 
patriotic luster emanated from the ensign, and a vague 
idea that I would some day see that flag dimly outlined 
through the smoke and fire of battle made the blood jump 
through my veins. 

And the ladies ! God bless them ! They looked so 
pretty and sweet, so loyal and yet so tender, that it 
aroused one’s manhood to a sense of duty in defending 
them. I never was a hero. I was naturally a coward. 
But I felt brave just then and mentally resolved that I 
would never do aught to be ashamed of. 

A similar feeling must have pervaded the entire regi- 
ment, for it gave vent to loud and enthusiastic cheers at 
the conclusion of the presentation. 

“I never saw the flag look so beautiful as it did to- 
day,” said John Stansfield, as he unbuckled his belt. 

“Dott all ri-et, you,” said John Ick. “But it dond look 
so beautiful one of dese days, I dond tink. I vash think- 
ing dot she is like how plue we vill all pe pefore ve gits 
home alretty, and de ret stripes — dot vash plood. We 
vas all going to ein schlaughter haus.” 

Despite this sanguinary prediction, Ick’s remarks crc- 


40 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ated a laugh, and from that time on, forever afterward, he 
was called “Slaughter House Ike.” 

On Friday it began to look like business; about one 
hundred men were yet missing and patrols were sent out 
to capture them, wherever found, and bring them in. The 
announcement in the Newark Advertiser that the Thir- 
teenth was about to start brought crowds of visitors to 
camp, a large proportion of them being ladies. 

On Saturday evening, August 30, 1862, the boys re- 
ceived word that they would start the next (Sunday) 
morning for the front ! 

Immediately the camp became a scene of great excite- 
ment and hilariousness. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


4i 


CHAPTER VII. 

OFF FOR THE FRONT. 

When “reveille” sounded in Camp Frelinghuysen on 
Sunday morning, August 31, 1862, no one was awak- 
ened. Everybody was already up and filled with excite- 
ment over the approaching departure for “the front.” A 
busy scene was enacted. Everybody was packing up. 
The men were wondering how to get into their knapsacks 
besides the clothing Uncle Sam provided them, such things 
as canned preserves, towels, looking-glasses, shaving out- 
fits and a hundred and one other things from loving ones 
at home — even to embroidered slippers ! 

It was no go. The knapsacks would scarcely hold the 
regular outfit, let alone other things. The parsimony of 
the government in providing such limited “trunks” was 
vigorously criticised, little knowing that before long we 
should be more than convinced that the knapsacks were 
altogether too large and too heavy. 

But the problem was solved by packing the superfluous 
luxuries into barrels and boxes. We had a vague idea 
that they would come along with the baggage. Innocent 
souls that we were. Somebody must have had a feast. 
We never saw those things again. 

We filled our haversacks with “grub” from the “cook 
house” and our canteens with water from the canal, and 
when everything was in readiness we tried on our 
“things.” 

Phew ! Here was another thing we hadn’t counted 
upon. That we were to be “pack mules” had never en- 
tered our heads. Contemplate the array : 

First, our thick clothes (with the scratchy shirt and 
stockings) ; then a broad leather belt extending from the 
right shoulder to the left hip ; then a body belt, upon which 
was a leather percussion cap box on the front and a heavy 


42 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


cartridge box on the right hip — a box containing forty 
rounds of ball cartridges in a tin case — the whole weigh- 
ing several pounds. Then there was the bulgy haversack, 
on the right hip, hanging by a strap from the left shoul- 
der, while on the reverse side was the canteen, suspended 
from a strap which ran over the right shoulder. Then 
came the knapsack, like the hump on Pilgrim’s back, 
hanging from straps over both shoulders and steadied by 
another strap that extended over the breast. On the equip- 
ments were brass eagles and brass plates with “U. S.” 
upon them. The knapsack was packed as full as it could 
be, and in straps on the top were the rubber and woolen 
blankets tightly rolled, while the overcoat was starpped 
to the back. 

This was ‘‘heavy marching order.” Add the rifle, 
weighing about nine pounds, and you have the complete 
soldier. All you can see is his face and legs, and a lot of 
straps and bundles and bags with a gleaming bayonet 
sticking up alongside the right shoulder. Thus arrayed 
and equipped, the load that a soldier had to carry was 
about forty pounds. Imagine yourself walking thirty 
miles a day and carrying forty pounds of baggage. 

A momentary trial of this load was enough. Every 
man threw off his knapsack completely discouraged. 

We were confronted with a condition utterly unfore- 
seen. Had there been an opportunity to test this layout 
in Captain Irish’s recruiting office, the probability is that 
not a single man would have enlisted ! 

Poor John Ick expressed the sentiment of Company K 
when he threw his knapsack down on the ground and ex- 
claimed : 

“Mine gott, poys. Dot vash de camel vot proke de 
straw’s pack. I vash going heim. I dond vant to be a 
soldier sometimes any more, alretty.” 

But it was too late to go home now. We were going 
away from home, and the evidences of our departure were 
too painfully apparent all around us. 

Solemn-faced men were embracing and kissing crying 
women and children all over the camp, and even some of 
the men were crying, not so much, perhaps, on their own 
account, as from sympathy with the really bereaved 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


43 


wives, mothers and daughters. No man likes to see a 
woman cry, but under ordinary conditions it affects dif- 
ferent men in different ways. A woman’s tears, to some 
men, is a signal for immediate capitulation. To others it 
has an irresistibly irritating effect. But when a woman 
cries from pure grief — and not from petulance, anger or 
hysteria — then it strikes a sympathetic chord in the male 
breast, and he whose eyes are not moist under such cir- 
cumstances is a brute. In the economy of nature it is 
only a brute that cannot laugh or cry. 

So it was not unmanly to see great, strong men weep,, 
because their wives, their mothers, their sweethearts wept. 
No one knew when they should meet again. Perhaps 
never. To some, it was never. 

But there is no time for long-drawn-out sentiment in 
war. The final farewells were terminated by the order 
to — 

“Fall in !” 

In a short time the regiment was formed and the order 
was given to march. A wild huzza arose from several 
thousand throats as the Thirteenth New Jersey filed out 
of the entrance to Camp Frelinghuysen, which the sol- 
diers were to see for the last time. The regiment was 
marched down through Orange street to Broad, followed 
by an immense crowd of people. It was a Sunday, but it 
was totally unlike an ordinary Sunday in Newark, for the 
whole city was out as if on a holiday. 

A short halt was made at Washington Park for a little 
rest. And “green” troops that we were, we greatly 
needed it. The day was atrociously hot. The sun poured 
down its pitiless rays until the backs of our necks were 
blistered. The straps from our knapsacks and accouter- 
ments had begun to cut into the uncalloused flesh of our 
shoulders, and the awful load we carried fatigued us 
greatly. The cobblestones with which Broad street was 
then paved seemed unnaturally high, round and uneven. 

We were marched to the Chestnut street depot, where 
the train was supposed to be ready. It wasn’t. No one 
ever knew of an army train being on time. It was a 
special, made up of the cheapest, dirtiest, oldest cars of the 
road — “The New Jersey Railroad and Transportation 


44 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Company” — a part of the “Camden and Amboy” system. 
The “Pennsylvania” was as yet unheard of — at least in 
New Jersey. 

There were more farewells. Venders of knickknacks, 
and particularly of cool drinks, did a thriving business. A 
milkman came along, and soon his cans were empty. As 
my father handed me an overflowing glass of milk, I 
looked upon his face for the last time. Before the war 
was ended he had given his life to his country. 

It was a solemn crowd. The first boisterousness had 
disappeared. The sorrowful, tearful farewells had a de- 
pressing effect. The news from the front was not cheer- 
ful. Even at that moment a great battle was in progress, 
and not very many miles from Washington. 

And yet there were laughable scenes. I will tell you 
one. It relates to James O. Smith, afterward connected 
with the New York Commercial Advertiser. Smith was 
a Newark boy, a jolly fellow, as he is to this day. He is 
one of those men who never grow old. Well, Smith’s 
mother and his best girl and her mother were looking 
around for Jim to bid him a last good-by, and Jim was 
watching for their expected appearance. Just then a beau- 
tiful little German girl came up, and intently gazing upon 
Smith for a moment, stepped up and asked : 

“Vas you going to go avay?” 

“Yes,” answered Jim, “I am going to the front.” 

“Veil,” answered the little German girl, “I vas so 
sorry.” 

And thereupon she put her hands on Smith’s shoulders, 
and leaning her face down upon them, began to cry as if 
her heart would break. 

Now James O. Smith said then, and he says yet, that he 
would pledge his word of honor as a man, as a gentleman 
and as a soldier, that never in the whole course of his life 
had he ever laid eyes on that pretty little German girl be- 
fore. But imagine his predicament when, just at that 
particular moment, up stepped his own, his genuine best 
girl, with her mother ! 

And before Jim could explain the truth the order was 
received to board the train. 

With a yell, a hurrah and a general racket the members 



“ Hurrah for the Thirteenth Regiment ! ’ said some one in the crowd. 


Page 45 





































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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


45 


of the Thirteenth climbed upon the cars. Every window 
was closely shut, and the air was stifling. As usual, the 
windows were stuck fast and could not be budged. Then, 
as if seized with the inspiration that a soldier’s duty was 
to destroy, smash went every window in every one of the 
fourteen or fifteen cars composing the “special” train. It 
was done with the butt ends of the rifles. There was 
plenty of air after that. The officers tried to expostulate, 
but it was too late. 

It took a long time to get on the “baggage” and other 
things necessary and in the meanwhile the boys were chat- 
ting through the broken glass windows with their friends 
outside. Jim Smith was apparently having much diffi- 
culty in convincing his real girl that his encounter with 
that pretty little German girl was only an accidental meet- 
ing. Whether he succeeded in putting himself right no 
one ever knew. 

A long blast of the whistle. A last, superfluous cry of 
“all aboard.” A slight movement of the train. We were 
off. 

“Hurrah for the Thirteenth Regiment !” said some one 
in the crowd. A wild hurrah from six thousand throats 
arose in the torrid atmosphere of that hot Sunday noon of 
August 31, 1862. 

“Hurrah for the ladies of Newark!” shouted a soldier. 
And the cars quivered with the shout. 

The people shouted again in chorus, and the air was 
filled with Godsends and “good-by, Johns” and “good-by, 
Bills,” while outside the cars pandemonium reigned su- 
preme. 

And thus it was, with a whoop and a shout, that the 
Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers started 
off for that mysterious, that awful, that unknown destina- 
tion comprehensively termed “The Front.” 

Alas! If some of them had known what they had to 
go through ere they again saw the city of Newark, they 
would have felt disposed to have thrown themselves under 
the car wheels and been crushed to jelly. 


46 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN. 

Those who have been on a target excursion know what 
sort of a scene is enacted on the cars going to and return- 
ing from a day’s pleasure. I can liken that journey of 
the Thirteenth Regiment from Newark to Philadelphia, 
to nothing but a gigantic excursion. Perhaps there was 
the more indulgence in boisterousness as a sort of offset 
to the gloomy features of the farewell. All the songs that 
the boys knew, and some that they didn’t know, were 
sung, and when the supply was exhausted they were sung 
over again. There were anecdotes and stories told, prac- 
tical jokes perpetrated, and whenever any one began to 
look sober and solemn he was selected as a victim. 

It seemed as if we had cut loose from everything as it 
were — from the world, the conventional routine of life, 
from restraining influences, from civilization. And so it 
was to a greater extent than we knew then, for the fact 
must be told that away from the influence of society, of 
woman, man becomes a brute. He loses all the little 
niceties and amenities of humanity and quickly deterio- 
rates into a savage. Another proof of Darwinism. Who 
knows, were we all turned out into the woods, how long 
it would be before tails began to sprout ! 

No such philosophical turn, however, entered the minds 
of the boisterous crowd that kept up the racket all the way 
to the southern boundaries of the State. The train went 
through Trenton and Bordentown, and entered Philadel- 
phia via Camden. It was about dusk when we crossed 
the Delaware in ferryboats that sailed between the two 
halves of Smith’s Island, and were at last in the city of 
Brotherly Love. 

“Philadelphia.” “Brotherly Love.” 

How sweet are the memories that hover around these 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


47 


names to every old soldier. No city loved the soldier 
more, or did more for the soldier, than Philadelphia. 
Every building large enough was already an hospital. 
Every fire engine had its ambulance, in the gorgeous 
decoration of which vehicles the different companies vied 
with each other until their ingenuity for something more 
handsome was exhausted. 

One of the institutions of Philadelphia was “The Sol- 
diers’ Rest.” It was a large structure, as big as the train 
shed at a railroad terminus. When a new regiment 
passed through the city on the way to the front, it was 
provided with a meal little short of a banquet. The men 
were seated at tables provided with tablecloths and 
crockery — real crockery, not tinware. The soldiers were 
waited upon by young ladies, pretty ones, too. 

“Oh, my jimminey, put I vas glad I come to de war!” 
enthusiastically exclaimed John Ick. 

John expressed the sentiment of all of us. We began 
to think that, if the further South we went the better we 
fared, by the time we reached the front we would have a 
regular picnic. Alas, we didn’t stop to remember that the 
last thing done to a Thanksgiving turkey is to gorge him 
with chestnuts. 

But, seriously, the old soldier will never forget Phila- 
delphia hospitality. But it was the jumping off place. 
Between the City of Brotherly Love and Baltimore there 
was a gap, a chasm. For right there was located some- 
where the dividing line, on one side of which a soldier was 
considered a patriot, a gentleman, and on the other side 
regarded merely as a soulless machine. 

We bade adieu to Philadelphia late that night with a 
salvo of cheers. 

Alas for human consistency. The last man to get on 
the cars was Jim Smith. In fact, he came near being left 
in consequence of his lingering flirtation with a pretty 
Philadelphia girl. And so soon after his encounter with 
his own true love — and that beautiful little German girl. 

The ride to Baltimore was through the night. At 
Havre de Grace the cars in those days crossed on a big 
ferryboat. There were no bridges then. The switches 
were choked with troop-laden trains, and we had to wait 


4 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


three hours for our turn on the ferry-boat. And, by the 
way, it was the first time for nearly all of us to see a loco- 
motive and train cross a wide river on a boat. It was 
morning when we reached Baltimore. Here we had break- 
fast. 

Breakfast ! Ugh ! 

We had passed the “dividing line.” We were in a State 
only semi-loyal. Indeed, bloody riots had occurred in the 
streets of Baltimore, caused by rebel sympathizers attack- 
ing passing regiments. As we disembarked we were 
quietly ordered to load our rifles — with bullets 1 It began 
to look like business. 

But that breakfast ! It was in a shed. The coffee was 
black and nasty — about as much flavor to it as mud. We- 
had soft bread that was slack-baked — half-dough. And 
the meat ! We were formally introduced to “salt horse !” 

“Vot sort of meat you calls that?” asked the irrepressi- 
ble John Ick, who wanted to know everything. The 
waiter was a soldier who had seen some service. 

“Salt junk,” replied he. 

“Salt yunk. Vot vas dot, alretty?” asked John. “Dot 
looks like old dried-up liverworst.” 

John attempted to take a mouthful. There were no 
knives or forks, and he held it in his hand. It was tougher 
than sole leather. It was what Rider Haggard would call 
“biltong.” 

“Ugh !” exclaimed John, spitting out the salty stuff and 
pushing the unsavory mess away from him. “Take it 
avay. Bring me some peefsteaks.” 

“Eat that or nothing,” said the soldier. 

“I no eat dot,” replied Ick, angrily. “You vas ein shy- 
sterpoop. You vas a old seseshel, and py gimmeny I can 
lick you quicker’n ” 

John had got up to fight. Sergeant Wells came up to 
see what the disturbance was about. 

“Dot old schweinigel, Mister Wells, he told me to eat 
dot or nothing. I dond like dot, alretty. Look by dot 
meat, dot — vot he callem — salt yunk. Und ven I ask him 
to pring me some peefsteaks, he tole me to eat dot or 
nothing, ain’t it.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


49 


“You must keep quiet, John,” said Wells. “That’s the 
regulation army food.” 

“I dond vant no reggellashen grub, I vant some peef- 
steaks, dot’s vat I vant.” 

“There’s no beefsteak here, John. You keep quiet, or 
you’ll get in trouble.” 

“I’ll go straight heim, dot’s vot I vill.” 

“Keep still.” 

“Vait vounce till I get you outside, you old pumper- 
nickel,” shouted the irate Ick, shaking his fist across the 
table. Then he quieted down, rather to everybody’s sur- 
prise. 

John Ick only expressed the feelings of the others. Oh, 
for a good, tender, juicy beefsteak. Salt horse, muddy 
coffee and moist bread ! What a menu ! The coffee was 
served in tin cups. The bread and meat were laid on the 
bare board that served as a table and which had evidently 
not been washed since it was made. 

The “Soldiers’ Retreat,” as this inhospitable place was 
called, was near the depot. We were compelled to sit or 
stand around there all day. Armed guards prevented our 
going out “to see the town.” We had to take our din- 
ner and supper — both of which were similar to the break- 
fast — in that miserable place. About dark we were told 
that the train was ready. 

And what a train ! Hitherto we had traveled in passen- 
ger cars, poor though they were. Now we were piled into 
old freight cars. We were getting to a part of the coun- 
try where war was war and a soldier nothing more than 
an animated piece of the machinery of war. It was sim- 
ply “anyway to get there,” now. Rough board seats 
were built across the cars and we were huddled in like so 
many sheep. Auger holes bored through the sides afforded 
what little ventilation there was. As it was, we were 
nearly stifled. 

With a series of stops and jerks as the bumpers of the 
old-fashioned coupled freight cars jammed together, we 
passed a miserable, restless, sleepless six hours, during 
which the rebels, the army, the government, the railroad, 
the officers and everything else were unsparingly anathe- 
matized, and we kicked ourselves that we were ever such 


5 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


fools as to enlist. Only for the irresistibly comical vigor 
of the curses of John Ick, which somewhat amused us, we 
would have died. 

Washington ! 

We arrived at last. Our first impressions of the great 
capital were anything but pleasant. It was in the middle 
of the night. We were marched through and over a lot 
of switches and sidings, and finally entered what seemed 
to be a large freight house. Here we spread our blankets 
and lay down. We were so tired out that we couldn’t help 
sleeping soundly. 

I was awakened early, as were my comrades. We 
found that the place was another of those “Soldiers’ Re- 
treats.” The breakfast was served a la Baltimore. After 
breakfast I obtained permission to be absent from camp 
for two hours, and with three or four comrades went to 
see that Mecca of every true American, the capitol build- 
ing. 

The capitol was scarcely like what it is now. The 
grounds were in a state of chaos. The dome was but 
partially completed; on its top was a gigantic derrick, just 
as the workmen left it when the government had other 
calls for its money than erecting marble buildings and 
glass domes. 

I went into the rotunda, that was comparatively fin- 
ished — partially in the same shape as now, except that 
only a portion of the pictures were painted — those pic- 
tures that subsequently became so familiar on the back of 
the national currency. 

With open-mouthed wonder, and mind filled with his- 
torical recollections thus so plainly brought face to face, I 
was gazing up toward the unfinished dome, when I felt a 
hearty slap on my shoulder. 

“Good-morning, my boy !” 

I turned to look. I was almost paralyzed. It seemed 
as if the dead had come to life. Did the reader ever ex- 
perience the sensation of meeting for the first time some 
great man whose picture was as familiar as a dining room 
clock ? It seems as if you had encountered an apparition. 

Mind you, it was 6 o’clock in the morning. I was “only 
a private.” But there at that early hour, standing in front 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


5i 


of me, was a tall, gaunt figure whose features were famil- 
iar to every man and woman, every boy and girl, in the 
country. 

It was no less a personage than Abraham Lincoln, the 
President of the United States ! 


52 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER IX. 

PRESIDENT AND PRIVATE. 

President Lincoln ! 

Now, any one who has been in the army knows that it 
is a rather extraordinary thing for a mere private soldier 
to come face to face with the President of the United 
States, the great commander of the whole army and navy. 
And it was more extraordinary that such an encounter 
should occur almost at the moment the aforesaid private 
soldier arrived in Washington — and at 6 o’clock in the 
morning at that. 

I had, of course, never seen Lincoln before, but his face 
was as familiar through popular portraits as General 
Grant’s subsequently was. Besides hadn’t I, in the fall 
of ’60, fed into the press at the Guardian office over forty 
thousand election tickets bearing the picture of Abraham 
Lincoln ? 

There he stood, tall, gaunt, pale, in a somber suit of 
black. His face wore an anxious look that accentuated 
that familiar wart on his cheek. And he was indeed anx- 
ious. The rebels were, so to speak, almost at the very 
gates of the national capital. There wasn’t much sleep 
for anybody. The President had hurriedly telegraphed 
for every available volunteer. He was on hand to see 
how many had come. He was like a boy who cannot wait 
for daylight on Christmas morning, but surreptitiously 
gets up in his nightshirt to take a glance at his stocking 
by the mantelpiece. This explains why President Lin- 
coln, with one or two other men — I don’t know who they 
were — was at the capitol so early that Monday morning, 
September i, 1862. 

“Good-morning, my boy ,” said he, as I turned to see 
who had slapped me so familiarly on the shoulder. And 
as I turned and instantly recognized him, as just ex- 



“G-g-good-morning,” I stammered, “ are-aren’t you the p-p-president?” 


Page S3 





THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


S3 


plained, I was almost paralyzed with amazement, I might 
say, terror. Who wouldn’t be under the circumstances? 

“G-g-good-morning,” I stammered, “are — aren’t you the 
p-p-president?” 

“Yes, my boy,” said he, encouragingly, seeing my em- 
barrassment, and taking me kindly by the hand, as a 
grave smile passed over his pale face. “Yes, I am the 
president — the president of a distressed country. We 
want you now, my lad, and a good many like you. You 
are from New Jersey?” 

“Y-y-yes, sir.” 

“The Thirteenth New Jersey?” 

“Yes, sir,” I answered, the surprise that he should know 
the number of my regiment somewhat overshadowing my 
embarrassment. 

“Who is your colonel ?” he asked. 

“Colonel Carman.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” said Mr. Lincoln. 

And that he should know or remember the name of our 
colonel, when there were so many colonels and regiments 
gave me another surprise. 

“How strong is your regiment ?” 

“About nine hundred, I believe, sir.” 

“Are there any more troops on the way ?” 

“Yes, sir; lots of them; but I don’t know how many, 
sir.” 

“You don’t know where they are from, I suppose?” 

“No, sir,” I replied, “but I heard some of them calling 
each other ‘Hoosiers’ and ‘Suckers,’ so that I suppose they 
are from Indiana and Illinois.” 

The president laughed, and a quizzical look passed over 
his face as he asked : 

“So they call the men from Illinois ‘suckers,’ do they?” 

“Yes, sir,” I replied, proud of my knowledge of State 
nomenclature. 

“Well, you know I’m from Illinois?” 

I thought I would sink through the marble floor of the 
rotunda. 

“Oh — oh — M-m-mister President,” I stammered, while 
I felt the hot blood rushing to the roots of my hair. “I 
d-d-didn’t mean ” 


54 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“That’s all right, my boy,” he said, with a reassuring 
smile. “I was only joking.” 

I had, of course, heard a good deal about “Abe” Lin- 
coln’s jokes ; but I never thought he would work one on 
me. I didn’t laugh at it a little bit — at least not just then. 

Mr. Lincoln then asked my name, residence and occupa- 
tion, and seemed to take a remarkable interest in an ob- 
scure stranger — nothing but a common private. He took 
my hand for a good-by, when I reminded him that there 
were several other Jersey boys standing behind me, who 
would no doubt feel honored to shake hands with the 
President of the United States. 

“I did not intend to miss them,” said Mr. Lincoln. 
“Every soldier is my friend and my brother. We are all 
soldiers now, in a common cause. God bless you all.” 

Then he shook hands and said a pleasant word to every 
blue-coated recruit in the rotunda. A couple of distin- 
guished-looking officers came in and interrupted proceed- 
ings, and after a word or so with them he started off in 
their company. We followed him to the top of the then 
unfinished eastern stairway, down which he went and 
walked over toward the old Capitol Prison. 

The familiar, friendly way in which the President had 
greeted us had captivated us entirely. The magnificent, 
though unfinished capitol building had no attractions for 
us after that. We had seen and spoken to a real, live 
president, and from that moment every one of us felt like 
giving his life, if necessary, in defense of a country with 
such a ruler. There is that in every citizen that enhances 
his loyalty at the sight of his ruler’s person. 

We hurried back to the “Retreat” to tell of our adven- 
ture. Every word of that conversation was impressed on 
my mind and it is there to-day as fresh as it was on the 
day it took place. Of course it created a sensation among 
my comrades. We told it to Company K, and then Cap- 
tain Irish sent for us and we had to repeat it to him. Then 
we received a message from the colonel and were required 
to relate it all over again for his information. 

“The boys who talked with the president” were the he- 
roes of the day. As for myself I think I grew about two 
inches taller. I thought I ought to be promoted at once. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


55 


and imagined the colonel would make me a corporal at 
least. But he didn’t. 

I met President Lincoln personally several times after 
that. I would have felt sad just then had I known that 
the last service I should be called upon to render him 
would be to stand guard over Abraham Lincoln’s mur- 
dered body. I did. 

I was soon brought down from my sublime height of 
imaginary importance by hearing Sergeant Heber Wells’ 
order : 

“Fall in, boys. We’re ordered to go over to Virginia 
at once.” 


56 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER X. 

IN OLD VARGINNY. 

There was a good deal of humbug and mild decep- 
tion in the army, as everywhere else, and one example is 
the way in which the innocent credulity of nearly every 
volunteer was played upon. Probably there never was an 
Eastern regiment that did not start out with a sort of un- 
derstanding, either tacit or expressed, that it was to be 
specially favored. It was generally to the effect that the 
colonel had “a pull” with the powers that were, and that 
that particular regiment, instead of long marches and hard 
fighting, was to be detailed for guard duty at Washing- 
ton or some similar snap, relieving some other regiment 
of more experience. 

Such an impression prevailed in the Thirteenth Regi- 
ment, and there seemed to be some ground for it, for 
surely the government would not send to the front* a lot 
of men who had had scarcely any drilling and the most 
of the members of which hardly knew how to load and 
fire a gun. But all this dreamy, pic-nicky prospect was 
scattered to the four winds by the peremptory order to 
get ready to march over into Virginia. 

“Dot is a shame,” exclaimed the irrepressible John 
Ick. ‘Til no go. Dose fellers dond get me by no 
schlaughter-haus, py hooky.” 

“Oh, you’re always a-croakin’! ye cranky old Dutch- 
man,” retorted Reddy Mahar; “shut up wid ye?” 

“Whose a granky old Deutschman?” answered Ick 
angrily, “you are a old Irish red head, dot’s vat you vash, 
und I don’t care, needer.” 

“Ye’re afraid, that’s phwat ye are,” said Reddy. 

“You vash anudder, alretty.” 

“Ye’re a coward, ye spalpeen.” 

“Whose a gowyard, Irish? Don’t you gall me dot py 
jimminy.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


57 


“That's phwat ye are," reiterated Reddy, “always prat- 
ing about slaughter house and sich. Ye must ha’ been 
dhrunk when ye ’listed, or ye wouldn’t been here.’’ 

“You vas von liar.’’ 

Reddy dropped his knapsack and went for “Slaughter 
House’’ Ick. The latter had got his arm twisted up in the 
strap of his knapsack somehow, and was caught at a dis- 
advantage. He was helpless and could not parry the blow 
that Reddy landed between his eyes. Ick, handicapped as 
he was, threw himself bodily upon Reddy, and the two 
went down together. In falling the two belligerents tum- 
bled against Sandy Kidd and the three went down into a 
heap. Then the others gathered around to witness an 
exceedingly lively rough-and-tumble fight. Hank Van 
Orden and some others jumped in to interfere and for a 
moment it resembled a riot. 

Captain Irish rushed up to the scene, furious. It was 
the first case of disorder that had occurred in the regie 
ment, and he regarded it as an ineffable disgrace to Com- 
pany K. He was^too angry to listen to details, and or- 
dered under arrest not only Ick and Mahar, but Van 
Orden and Kidd as well, in spite of the latter’s protests. 
The two innocent men were subsequently released, but 
Ick and Mahar had to carry two muskets for the rest of 
the day as a punishment. And any old soldier will tell 
you that it is no fun to carry two heavy rifles, in addition 
to all the legitimate baggage of a private. 

When the matter was reported to Colonel Carman he 
laconically remarked: 

“They’ll get over that nonsense. They’ll have all the 
fighting they want before they are home again, I guess.’’ 

“But you can put down the fact, colonel,’’ replied Lieu- 
tenant Scott, “that Company K was the first in a fight.’’ 

The colonel smiled, shifted his “chew,’’ and strode 
away. Soon after we were on the march. 

Our orders were to proceed to “Fort Ward,” when- 
ever that might be. None of us knew, of course, except 
that it was over in “Old Varginny.” We marched 
through some back streets of the capital city until we 
came to the famous “Long Bridge.” And let me say that 
Washington was not then the magnificent city that it is 


58 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


now. The streets were paved with cobblestones or were 
mere dirt — not with the asphalt of to-day. What is now 
the beautiful park back of the White House was then 
nothing but a swamp. The Washington monument was 
not half completed. Work had been stopped on it for a 
great many years. Visitors to the capital now can tell 
its height then by the dirty appearance of the stone on the 
lower half. The upper and more recently completed part 
looks whiter and cleaner. 

We crossed the Long Bridge and during the afternoon 
made our first foot tracks in the dusty roads of Virginia’s 
sacred soil. The general color of Virginia soil is brick 
red. In summer it is an impalpable dust. In winter it is 
mud — and such mud! The possibilities of its depth are 
limitless, while its consistency ranges from paste to dough. 
When we arrived the dust season was at its height. 

We didn’t go to Fort Ward, but to Fort Richardson. 
But it didn’t matter. The difference was only in name. It 
was simply a row of embankments, hastily thrown up. 
It was on Arlington Heights, just across the river from 
Washington. These so-called fortifications (still there) 
were made for the protection of the capital, the idea being 
then that the enemy was close at hand and that it would 
be the scene of a battle in a day or so. 

It was close enough to the city for visitors and fakirs. 
The latter’s name was legion. They sold all sorts of 
useful and useless things to the soldiers, the only one of 
which that was any good being a combined pocket knife, 
fork and spoon. No soldier ever had cause to regret buy- 
ing one of these useful articles. All the other things were 
humbugs. 

The tintype fiend was also numerously in evidence, and 
there were few who didn’t have “their pictures took” in 
warlike array to send home to admiring and awestruck 
friends and relatives. 

But where was the baggage? Where were the tents? 
Not a sign of them, and night was approaching. Jakey 
Engle cooked our beans and made our coffee on time, 
but there were no signs of sleeping accommodations. 
There was a general “kick.” The Thirteenth Regiment 
then and there began the kicking that they kept up till 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


59 


the end of the war. There was an old saying in the army 
that a soldier who didn’t kick was no good. In that par- 
ticular sense there was no regiment in the army that filled 
the requirements of good soldiers to a greater extent than 
the Thirteenth New Jersey. 

For the first time in the lives of the most of us we 
went to bed outdoors on the bare ground, with nothing 
over us except the stars. It is a singular sensation to 
wake up in the night, chilled to the bone, and see the 
bright stars overhead. 

Many a man wished that night that he was between 
the sheets of his comfortable bed at home. Patriotism 
was at ebb tide, and at heart there were very few who 
were not sorry they had enlisted. 

“Wouldn’t you rather be setting type for an extra in 
the Guardian office?” asked Davy Harris. 

I honestly confessed that I would indeed. 

“Don’t get downhearted, boys,” said John Stansfield. 
“We have only* 1,087 more days to serve.” 

“What’s that?” 

“I say we have only 1,087 more days to serve. You see 
we enlisted for three years. That is 1,095 days. We have 
been mustered in eight days. That leaves 1,087 y e * t° 
serve.” 

“Oh, but you know,” said Harris, “that we enlisted ‘for 
three years unless sooner discharged,” and as the war 
won’t last three years ” 

“Don’t calculate too much on that,” interrupted Stans- 
field. “I believe it is going to take more than three years 
to settle this thing.” 

This was a dampening remark. I don’t believe a single 
one of the men imagined when he enlisted that the war 
would last one year, let alone three. Such language was 
not calculated to make us very cheerful. 

And yet John Stansfield was pretty near right. It 
lacked only a few weeks of three years when the Thir- 
teenth Regiment was mustered out because their “serv- 
ices were no longer required.” 

As to Stansfield’s calculations: I don’t believe there 
was a soldier in the army who did not, every night, men- 
tally count up how many days had elapsed since his enlist- 


6o 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ment, and “how many more days he had to serve/’ This 
phase of the case certainly shows that army life was not 
as enjoyable as some people think it was. They counted 
the days yet remaining before they would be discharged, 
the same as a convict does the remaining days of his im- 
prisonment. 

As we lay there on the hard Virginia soil that night, 
with the sky for a counterpane and the bright stars for 
night lamps, not one appreciated the magnitude of the 
struggle. Not one dreamed that the North would require 
1,500,000 soldiers before the rebellion was suppressed; 
that there would be 300,000 men killed ; that there would 
be between 400,000 and 500,000 wounded ; that the num- 
ber who died from disease or exposure or were included 
under that wonderful and mysterious heading of “miss- 
ing/’ would aggregate some 300,000 more ! 

These are frightful statistics, but they are approxi- 
mately true. So sleep on in ignorance of the awful times 
to come ! Dream of home, soldier ! 

And so we slept. 



On foot were, seemingly, myriads of soldiers less severely wounded. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


61 


CHAPTER XI. 

A RETREATING ARMY. 

In the morning we were awakened by the mighty tread 
of a moving army. And what an army ! Thousands upon 
thousands of men, whose dirty, filthy clothes made a 
sorry contrast with our bright new uniforms; men with 
dirty, unkempt hair, worn out and pinched. None of 
them carried knapsacks — nothing but a rolled blanket 
hanging over one shoulder and tied under the arms on the 
other side with a string. They resembled horse collars. 
We wondered why this was done — why they had dis- 
carded their knapsacks. We learned that later. 

There were troops and troops of cavalry and mounted 
officers. There was an apparently interminable string 
of flying artillery. And as for the army wagons, each 
drawn by six braying mules, there was simply no end of 
them. 

But there was something else ! Blood ! 

Hundreds of two- wheeled ambulances came along; 
glancing in we saw the form of a motionless soldier, or 
perhaps two of them, and each one wearing a blood- 
stained bandage somewhere. There were soldiers minus 
legs, soldiers minus arms, soldiers whose heads were so 
swathed that only the eyes could be seen. 

On foot were, seemingly, myriads of soldiers less, 
severely wounded, with bandages on their heads, with 
their arms in slings, and not a white bandage could be 
seen without the stain of blood oozing through. John 
Ick’s remark about a “slaughter house” was verified. 

We encountered some Paterson boys in the passing 
army — boys who had enlisted in the earlier regiments. 

They were already veterans. Many had “smelled pow- 
der.” They had seen a battle. In fact they had been in a 
battle, and had been wounded. The privates didn’t know 


62 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


it, but the army was even then on the retreat, and falling 
back on Washington. The very capital was threatened. 

Soldiers who participate in a battle don’t know where 
they are or what it is named. Historians give names to 
battlefields. The one that had just taken place is now 
known as “The Second Bull Run.” Twice the Army of 
the Potomac had been defeated on the same ground at 
Manassas. 

This battle was fought on August 29 and 30, 1862. 

It was this battle that caused the peremptory tele- 
graphic order for us to leave Camp Frelinghuysen at 

once. 

And on Monday night, September 1st, while we were 
on the way the maneuvering of the armies precipitated 
a second conflict between Hill’s and Ewell’s divisions of 
Stonewall Jackson’s troops on the Confederate side, and 
the Union commands of Reno, Hooker and Kearny. It 
was what was subsequently called the battle of Chantilly. 
History tells us that one of Reno’s divisions was forced 
back in disorder, whereupon the intrepid Kearny sent 
Birney’s brigade to repair the break. A gap still remained 
on Birney’s right, and Kearny galloped forward to recon- 
noiter. 

It was here that the gallant Phil Kearny lost his life. 
He had already lost an arm in a previous battle, and 
more than once the soldiers saw him leading a charge 
with his sword between his teeth, and guiding his horse 
with his only hand. He was courageous to the degree of 
recklessness. Unknowingly he penetrated the enemy’s 
lines and was killed. In grateful remembrance of his 
services the State of New Jersey erected a handsome 
bronze monument, which for a time stood in the State 
House at Trenton, but which now stands in one of the 
parks on Broad Street, Newark. 

After the battle of Chantilly the Army of the Potomac 
fell back within the fortifications of Washington. It was 
this “falling back” that the Thirteenth Regiment encoun- 
tered a day or so after they had left their mustering camp 
in Newark. 

It was expected then and there that General Lee and 
his whole army would be upon us in a few hours, and we 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


63 


raw recruits were told that we would likely have a battle 
soon. Was I frightened? Wasn’t I? I can’t speak for 
the others, but as for myself I thought surely that my 
days were numbered. When I enlisted I had a remote 
idea that I might possibly, some day in the far-off future, 
see a real battle ; but this suddenness was too much, and 
I was completely upset. The sight of the vast retreating 
army ; the awful spectacle of the blood stained wounded ; 
the prospects of an immediate battle — well, it scared the 
whole lot of us. 

“Scared,” is the correct word. We were thoroughly 
scared. And let me say right here that the man who 
says he was not scared on the eve of a battle is a liar. 

“You’ll be sick of it before you’re in it long,” said one 
of the veteran Jerseymen. 

“We’re sick of it already,” was the reply. 

And we were. If there had been any back way to sneak 
home, I believe the whole lot of us would have sneaked. 
Why did we enlist? Why were we such fools? As for 
myself, I looked back over the previous few days and 
traced it to the pound of cheese I had carried around to 
Mr. Pennington’s house. I never looked at a piece of 
cheese without thinking of it. My war experience and 
cheese are indissolubly connected. 

But General Lee and his army didn’t chase us clear into 
Washington. Lee turned his face northward in search of 
new fields to conquer. Day after day passed, and no 
enemy appeared, no fighting was done. Doubtless the “big 
guns” knew what was going on, but we privates were in 
ignorance. Privates never know anything. They simply 
do as they are told. From the moment they enlist they 
are shackled slaves, and some of the officers were worse 
slave-drivers than ever cudgeled a plantation negro. 

The first scare soon wore off. It is always so with an 
averted or delayed danger. For several days we had 
things easy. Our belated Sibley tents arrived from some- 
where, the weather was fine, and we were comfortable, 
to say the least. We mingled with the old Jersey soldiers 
and listened to their stories with interest — and consterna- 
tion. They soon convinced us that our enlistment was 
not likely to be “a season of pleasure and victorious con- 


64 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


quest,” but that we were about to undergo hardships and 
sufferings then unknown to all but veterans. 

Congress was in session, then day and night, and some 
of us went over on passes and saw the lawmakers at work. 
I became acquainted with Senator McDougall, previously 
governor of California. I don’t remember exactly how 
it was, but somehow he took a notion to me, and after- 
ward proved a friend. 

It was not all play, however. We were put through 
much drilling, and kept at work with the pick and shovel 
throwing up earthworks until our soft hands were blis- 
tered. It is a big jump from setting type to digging 
trenches. 

“Sure’n I didn’t ’list for this,” said Reddy Mahar, one 
afternoon, “I ’listed to fight the Johnny Rebs, and not to 
dig holes in the ground. Be jabers, oim going to 
sthrike !” 

Lem Smith was of similar opinion. John Ick thought 
it was a little better than a slaughter house anyway. 
Jack Butterworth said it was harder than turning bobbins 
in Daggers & Row’s shop. Curt Bowne thought it a 
shame. Discontent ruled the whole line. 

So an “indignation meeting” was held, and a commit- 
tee appointed to “wait on the colonel.” The colonel said 
he had nothing to do with privates; all complaints must 
come through the captain. That was “according to reg- 
ulations.” The committee then waited on the captain. 

“Go back to work, or you’ll go to the guardhouse,” 
said he. “A soldier has nothing to do except obey orders. 
Your orders are to dig that trench.” 

“But,” said the spokesman, “we enlisted for soldiers, 
not to — — ” 

The sentence was interrupted by a peculiar drum beat. 
The officers hurried to the colonel’s tent. In a moment 
Captain Irish returned and ordered Company K to fall in.- 

The whole regiment assembled in dress parade. Look- 
ing to the other camps we could see all the regiments do- 
ing the same thing. The adjutant read an order. It was 
to the effect that General George B. McClellan has been 
reassigned to the command of the Army of the Potomac. 

We all cheered. I didn’t know why. Perhaps because 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


65 


all the other regiments were cheering. A mighty chorus 
of hurrahs arose from the assembled army. The raw 
recruits were not aware of the fact that McClellan, no 
matter how much he might be in disfavor with the “heavy 
weights’’ at the head of the government was the idol of 
the older soldiers. His reassignment to command filled 
them with enthusiasm, and they cheered; we cheered to 
be in fashion, if for nothing else. 

But there was another order. It involved dropping the 
pick and shovel, and so it ended Company K’s threatened 
“strike.” It was an order to be in readiness to move at a 
moment’s notice. 

That afternoon, Saturday, September 6, 1862, it got 
out somehow that Lee with his whole army had skirted 
Washington and was over in Maryland making his way 
as fast as he could toward Pennsylvania. Unless stopped 
the enemy would soon be through Delaware and in New 
Jersey, on the way to New York. 

Instinctively every man thought of his home and 
family. 

“Why didn’t they keep us at Newark?” asked Jack 
Butterworth. “We would have been of more use there.” 

“Oh, I guess we’ll head them off,” answered John 
Stansfield. “Besides I’d rather be along with the rest of 
the army than fighting the whole Southern Confederacy 
with a single regiment.” 

So thought I. Besides, I rather liked the idea of Lee 
and his army marching up Main Street, Paterson. I’d 
like to see an attack on the man who ordered that pound 
of cheese. And I wondered how those patriotic citizens 
who had induced me to enlist would act when they got a 
dose of their own medicine. 

We talked the matter over that night and speculated 
on coming events till we were tired, and finally went to 
bed on our blanket mattresses in the comfortable Sibley 
tents. 

But not to sleep. We had scarcely closed our eyes, 
when once more that infernal drum began beating in a 
way we’d never heard it beat before. 

“What is that?” we asked. 


66 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“It’s the long roll,” said Sergeant Heber Wells, as he 
stuck his head through the flag of our tent. 

“The long, roll ? what does that mean ?” 

“It means to pack up, boys,” replied the sergeant, with 
considerable agitation manifested in his voice. “Pack up 
at once, get ready for a long march. And be quick about 
it. There’s no time to lose.” 

What could it mean? Was the enemy unexpectedly 
upon us, after all ? 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


67 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MARCH IN THE DARK. 

Like the Arab of old we stole away in the night. 

But not “quietly.” It was with a noise and a clatter, 
with cheer and jest, as if it were a moonlight excursion. 
We were loaded like pack mules. Our haversacks were 
stuffed with three days’ rations. Our canteens were filled 
to the brim. In our cartridge boxes were forty rounds 
of ammunition, forty ounces of which were leaden bullets. 
Our knapsacks were packed like Saratoga trunks, and the 
straps fairly cracked. 

All went smoothly enough for awhile, and we kept a 
pretty good line as we crossed the aqueduct bridge into 
Georgetown. And by the way, Georgetown with its sur- 
roundings looked then pretty much as it does now. I re- 
member well my last glance at Washington. In the far 
distance was the Capitol, all lighted up, for Congress was 
holding one of its usual night sessions. In the rear of the 
White House was a camp. I think it was the Tenth New 
Jersey, which was detailed for guard duty. Lucky Tenth ! 
Unlucky Thirteenth ! 

When I returned to Washington next, it was also in the 
night. But I didn’t see much of it. I was only a wounded 
soldier, en route for the hospital. Never mind now. That 
comes later, and much comes before it. 

Unused as we were to marching, loaded down as we 
were with superfluous weight, it soon began to tell on us. 
One by one the raw and soft recruits began to fall by the 
wayside, utterly exhausted. We were beginning to appre- 
ciate the fact which all old soldiers knew by experience, 
that if there is any one thing worse than a battle it is a 
long march. Indeed for long-continued suffering, for in- 
describable agony, both physical and mental, for every- 
thing except the horror, marching is vastly worse than 
fighting. 


68 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


To the veterans it was comparatively easy. They were 
hardened, toughened. A thoroughly trained athlete can 
run five, ten, or even fifteen miles. An untrained man 
would be fatigued at as many rods. We were like a bicy- 
clist when he starts to ride in the spring, after a winter’s 
rest. And the boys dropped from the ranks like drops 
from an icicle in the sun. 

I was young and wiry and Stuck it out. But I was glad 
enough when about midnight we were marched into a 
big field ; our guns were stacked, and we threw ourselves 
down on the ground, just as we were, for a few hours’ 
needed rest and sleep. Everybody was too tired to jest, 
too tired to talk. We needed no rocking to sleep. 

“Wake up, Joe, wake up! There’s no rest for the 
wicked.” 

It was John Stansfield, who was lying alongside me. 

“What in thunder are you doing?” I demanded ftfrgrily ; 
“can’t you let a fellow sleep?” 

“Get up,” he repeated, giving me a punch in the ribs, 
“we’ve got to tramp again.” 

It was too true. We were ordered to fall in ; and we 
hadn’t rested an hour. It was a sleepy crowd that formed 
the crooked line of men comprising Company K. But it 
was dark and no one to see us. Furthermore the officers 
were as sleepy as we were. 

Now company officers march the same as the “men”; 
but they have to carry no baggage. That is carried in the 
wagons. All the foot officers have to carry is their swords 
— and, generally, a flask! The officers higher than cap- 
tains rode horseback. 

What we were aroused for unless to make us more 
tired, I don’t know. But we were marched up the road 
and down the road and back again, halted and counter- 
marched, until finally we were once more told to “break 
ranks” in a field adjoining the first one, and once more 
we threw ourselves on the ground almost dead. 

To a private soldier these mysterious movements were 
always inexplicable. Every veteran can recall thousands 
of such experiences which then seemed and seem now to 
have been utterly unnecessary, and concocted for no other 
purpose than to fatigue and annoy. The misery, torture 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 69 

and suffering caused by these unexplained maneuvers 
could never be described. 

The next day was Sunday. 

“I guess they’ll give us a rest to-day,” said John But- 
terworth to me. 

“Why?” I asked. 

“Because it is Sunday. We haven’t heard the chaplain 
yet. You know he’s to preach every Sunday, and of 
course we can’t march and go to church at the same 
time.” 

I had forgotten the chaplain. He was Rev. T. Romeyn 
Beck. He was a nice sort of a fellow, but didn’t do much 
preaching, if I remember correctly. The chaplain wore a 
uniform of solemn black, even to the buttons. He rode 
with the colonel and major and altogether had quite a soft 
snap of it. 

Chaplains didn’t do much fighting. They were sup- 
posed to administer spiritual consolation on the battlefield ; 
but as a usual thing they, like the old war-horse, “smelled 
the battle from afar.” The rate of mortality among the 
chaplains was not high. I don’t think the life insurance 
companies classed them as “extra hazardous.” I don’t say 
our chaplain was never in a battle ; but I can say I never 
saw him in one. But then perhaps I was generally too 
scared to see anybody in particular. 

But nevertheless Chaplain Beck was a nice man and 
kind to us soldier boys. The chaplain was usually the 
regimental postmaster. I forget whether Chaplain Beck 
or the one who succeeded him was the victim of a cruel 
joke late in the campaign, which I might as well tell here 
as anywhere. 

There had been no mail for several weeks and the boys 
were getting impatient to hear from home. They fairly 
pestered the life out of the chaplain to know when the 
mail would be in. He couldn’t go anywhere or attempt to 
do a thing without meeting some one with the inquiry 
about mail. There is a limit to the endurance even of 
clergymen. Getting tired of answering questions the foB 
lowing notice was posted outside the chaplain’s tent : 

“The chaplain does not know when the mail will be 


70 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The boys didn’t like this. It was shutting them off too 
summarily. Finally a wag got a piece of charcoal and 
made an addition to the sign. 

All the boys tittered when they saw it, but sneaked out 
of sight when they saw Colonel Carman approaching. He 
gave one glance at the sign in front of the tent, and then 
stuck his head in the opening. 

“Say, Cap,” said he, addressing the chaplain, “what 
sort of a notice is this you have out there ?” 

“Oh,” replied he, “the boys are bothering me so much 
about the mails that I thought I would post a general 
answer, so that they may all read it.” 

“But isn’t the language rather rough?” inquired the 
colonel. 

“It’s all right, isn’t it?” 

“Just look at it and see how it reads, Cap.” 

The chaplain stepped out, bareheaded, and this is the 
sign that met his astonished gaze : 

“The chaplain does not know when the mail will be 
in — neither does he care a damn !” 

That sign came down, and never again did anything 
of the kind appear in front of his tent. 

But this is a digression. We will dismiss the chaplain 
by saying that we had no religious services that day, nor 
for many a long day. 

Neither were we allowed to have a rest. Tired and stiff 
as we were, with our legs cramped and sore, with blood 
in our shoes .from chafed feet, we were relentlessly or- 
dered to fall in to resume the pitiless march. 

And never shall I forget that day ! 



Finally a wag got a piece of charcoal and made an addition to the sign. 


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7i 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SUNSTRUCK. 

No, never shall I forget that day — that hot Sunday, 
September 7, 1862. 

The sun rose like a red, burnished copper globe. Not 
a breath of air was stirring. The atmosphere was torrid, 
stifling, enervating. It was pitilessly hot. And we were 
stiff, sore, and filled with strange pains and aches from 
the previous night’s march. 

But what mattered that ? What were the personal suf- 
ferings of individuals in a vast army ! Cruel and relent- 
less it seemed to us, raw recruits that we were, fresh from 
the customary considerations of civil life, that we should 
be forced to resume the terrible march. 

And here let me state a curious fact. Any one would 
naturally imagine that the men who best stood the rigors 
of an army march would be those who filled the hardest 
positions in civil life. An express-wagon driver, accus- 
tomed to lifting heavy boxes ; a backwoodsman, inured to 
hardships and exposure ; a blacksmith or a day laborer — 
these are the men one would imagine the best toughened 
for soldier life. But such was not the case. The men who 
stood it out the best were those who were accustomed to 
the lightest work at home. Bookkeepers, dry goods clerks, 
men who never lifted anything heavier than a ledger or 
a roll of calico — these were the men who could endure the 
most hardship and fatigue. 

Any old officer of the army will tell you that this is 
so. It is a singular fact. It was often discussed and com- 
mented upon, but no explanation was ever given. It was 
simply so and that settled it. 

And so it was on this hot September morning. The 
men who had been regarded the most hardy seemed to 
suffer the most. Those who had had the hardest physical 


72 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


labor at home were the stiffest, the sorest, the most com- 
plaining. Although I had never had hard work in the 
printing office and was not naturally robust, I probably 
suffered as little as anybody, as far as physical ailment 
was concerned, except for the intolerably raw blisters 
on my feet, caused by the unpliable brogans and thick 
coarse stockings, the latter being so much too large that 
they were as full of wrinkles as the skin of a hippo- 
potamus. 

There was one thing that worried me that morning, 
however. It was the heat, and threatened promise of 
what we now call “ a scorcher.” I never could stand the 
fierce rays of the summer sun; but never dreaded it so 
much as I did that morning. Was it a presentiment of 
what was to happen ? Who knows ? 

That morning was our first experience with “hard- 
tack.” Hitherto we had had fresh bread ; but that “soft 
stuff” had run out, and we were compelled to draw upon 
the rations in our haversacks. Now, as explained in a pre- 
vious chapter, a hard-tack is an innocent and soft-looking 
thing. But he who tackles one finds that he is a victim 
of misplaced confidence. They look like soda crackers. 
But they are not soda crackers. 

When I struck the first one I thought that I had en- 
countered an unusually ancient specimen. I could make 
no more impression on it than a missionary could on the 
heart of a Fiji cannibal. I turned to my comrade, Heber 
Wells, and saw him trying to pull a tooth. At least so it 
seemed. He was only trying to get a bite out of the hard- 
tack. 

“How does it go?” I asked. 

“Don’t go at all,” he replied. “How do you eat these 
things, anyhow?” 

“I tell you how I did it,” said John Stansfi’eld. “I 
smashed mine between a couple of stones.” 

“By jimminey,” said John Ick, “I tried that, and by 
jimminey I proke dose stones alretty, and never proke 
dot, vat you callem, dot hart-tack.” 

Jake Engle had, however, got a pointer from one of 
the older soldiers, who had taught him how to make 
“lobskouse.” Now what bread and butter is to a person 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


73 

at home, that is “lobskouse” to the soldier. Here is the 
way to make the great army dish : 

Take a bit of fat pork and melt it over the fire in a 
frying-pan or tin plate. Break up the hard-tack into small 
pieces and drop it into the frying fat. Let the whole mess 
sizzle together until the cracker is saturated with the fat 
and the result is a product that looks and tastes like pie 
crust. It is quite palatable. The crackers are softened and 
you can eat the stuff, and over a million men could testify 
that it would sustain life. Where all other supplies were 
unattainable, “lobskouse” was generally available, and 
scarcely a day passed but that it did not form the principal 
dish for at least one meal. 

Indigestible stuff, you say? Well, who ever heard of a 
soldier having dyspepsia? Of all the ailments that came 
along to make the' soldier’s life miserable, indigestion was 
one of the things he never complained of. Ye dyspeptics, 
who swallow nostrums and patent medicines by the bar- 
rel, consider the ways of the soldiers and be wise. Go to 
the war and be shot, and you’ll have no more dyspepsia. 
Nor will you have any more even if you are not shot. 

As soon as we had gulped down our lobskouse and 
black coffee, we fell in and were marched down to the 
edge of the field near the highway. There we waited 
for an hour or more, watching the passing troops. Was 
there no end to them ? The line seemed interminable. In- 
fantry, cavalry, artillery, baggage wagons and ambur 
lances, in an endless row — the men and horses four 
abreast, the wagons and cannons two abreast. They were 
mostly old soldiers, and, of course, dirty soldiers. They 
looked like tramps. But few carried knapsacks. They car- 
ried their blankets in a roll over their shoulders. 

Each of the men carried a quart cup or a tomato can 
tied to his haversack. These had wire handles or bales, 
making them into little tin pails. Each one was as black 
as a stovepipe from smoke. We did not know then what 
we learned afterward, that the tin pails constituted the 
main cooking utensils of the army. On the march and 
field every man is his own cook. 

Some carried frying-pans. At each step the tin pails, 
canteens and other things rattle together with a “clink- 


74 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ety-clink,” “clinkety-clink” that sounded like an orchestra 
of cracked cowbells. In the still of the night you could 
hear the clatter of the tinware of an army miles away. 
All this was new to us raw recruits. 

After an apparently interminable wait, we were finally 
ordered to fall in the seemingly endless procession. The 
trouble began. 

Now those who have never marched in an army know 
nothing of the most exasperating features. When you 
see a company or regiment of militia marching up a street 
you are pleased with the regularity of the step and the 
nicely maintained distance between the lines. But sup- 
pose a train came along while crossing the railroad, or a 
street car gets into the way, there is a 'break and delay. 
When the obstruction is removed, the rear of the column 
has to march in quick step to close up the gap caused by 
the forward end keeping on the go while the rear is 
stopped. 

In the army there were such obstructions in the shape 
of broken wagons or caissons, narrow bridges, or brooks 
to cross. The front men narrowed the width of the col- 
umn and marched past, while the rear slowed up. With 
a few men this amounted to nothing; but when extended 
down and through a line of thousands or tens of thou- 
sands, those in the rear had frequent halts of half an hour 
or so, and then a stiff race of five or ten minutes to catch 
up. This was very wearing and fatiguing. Old soldiers 
knew enough to lie down every minute they could and re- 
serve their strength and endurance. We were ignorant. 

As the sun rose in the sky it grew hotter and hotter. 
It was a perfect broil. The perspiration fell in streams 
from our faces and rolled down our backs. Our thick 
underclothing stuck to our skin like wet sheets. Our 
backs began to ache. The numerous straps on our 
shoulders cut into the very flesh. Whatever way we 
carried our guns they seemed heavier than before. It 
was torture. Nine out of ten men were limping as if 
lame from the constantly increasing size of the raw blis- 
ters on their feet. 

We were in Maryland and were to march, it was said, 
until we reached Rockville. How far was it? we asked 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


75 


the first “native” we encountered. “Right about nine 
mile, I reckon,” he said. 

After marching an hour or so longer we asked another 
Maryland rustic how far it was to Rockville. 

“Right about nine mile !” 

And so it was. Everybody we asked, no matter how 
much further we went, “reckoned it were about nine 
mile.” 

I saw the other fellows lightening their loads and fol- 
lowed suit. First went an extra suit of underclothes. 
“Every little helps.” A while later and I discarded by 
the wayside a comb and brush, a shaving set, a box of 
blacking and brush. “Every pound counts.” A mile 
further and I pulled out two cakes of soap, a couple of 
towels, a pincushion and sewing case. “A little better.” 

But no use. What the others were doing I would do. 

It seemed a pity to throw away the nice overcoat and 
blouse and dress coat, but they had to go. And finally the 
knapsack itself followed, leaving nothing but the rubber 
and woolen blankets. The heaviest thing of all, the cart- 
ridge box, we couldn’t discard, for soldiers must fight. 
The most useful things, the haversack and canteen, we 
stuck to, for soldiers must eat and drink. 

The road for miles was strewn with things that cost 
the government much money. But what odds? Uncle 
Sam was rich, and we were only doing what every new 
soldier had done before us and what all soldiers will do 
hereafter, to the beginning of the millennium when there 
will be no more war. By noon we were, that is the most 
of us, down to the lightest marching order of the oldest 
veterans in the line. 

As I intimated, not all of us. Some sturdy fellows 
stuck to their loads. Sergeant Heber Wells, for instance, 
who did not discard a single article from his stuffed knap- 
sack, nor that comical fellow “Jeff Davis,” who all 
through the war persisted in carrying two knapsacks. 

The pitiless sun shortly after noon began to get in its 
fine work. One by one the men fell out. Hank Van 
Orden was the first of Company K to succumb. His 
mind suddenly grew flighty, he mumbled a few inarticu- 
late meaningless words, threw up his arms, gave a yell, 


76 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


and fell like a log, senseless. He was rolled to the side 
of the road and left “for the ambulance to pick up.” A 
moment later Lem Smith raised his hands, clutched the 
air, and fell. John Snyder dropped like a bullock felled 
with an axe. Poor John Ick, who had quite appro- 
priately been prating about “slaughter houses” and 
“shambles,” was the next victim. Soon after fat John 
Farlow staggered to the side path and threw himself 
down in the miserable shade of a rail fence. Archy Todd 
reeled like a top two or three times, and fell forward on 
his face in the dusty road. 

And so it went. By 3 o’clock in the afternoon not 
thirty of the ninety members of Company K were in the 
line, and it was correspondingly the same in all the other 
companies of the regiment. There were perhaps three 
times as many members of the Thirteenth stretched along 
the roadside than there were in the ranks. 

Aside from the suffering from the sun and the torture 
from the heavy load and from our bleeding feet, there 
was a marked mental depression, consequent upon the 
sight of so many of our comrades falling out. It is a 
well-known fact that when one or two girls faint in a 
mill or in a school, a dozen will do likewise. Any old 
factory foreman or teacher will tell you this. To a cer- 
tain extent the same species of hysteria affects men. I 
know it affected me. 

And as said before, I never could stand the sun. What 
I suffered that day no man can ever know unless he has 
been through the same experience. 

Along about 3 o’clock I guess it was, I suddenly 
noticed that the trees and fences were beginning to dance. 
The soldiers in front of me were turning rapid somer- 
saults. There was a horrible sickness of the stomach 
and my head seemed about to split open ! 

For an instant the air was full of stars ! Then the sky 
turned green ! Then black ! 

Then — utter oblivion ! 

I was sunstruck ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


77 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AT ROCKVILLE. 

“No, he isn’t going to die. He’ll come around all 
right.” 

“It was a close shave, though; wasn’t it, doctor?” 

“Yes, it was. But the danger is over now. Keep him 
right here under the shade of this tree, and keep the 
towel on his head wet with cool water. Don’t give him 
any more of the brandy without letting me know first.” 

This is part of a conversation I hear, in a dim, hazy 
sort of a way. It seems afar off, or as if in another 
room, through partly closed doors. Yet it is distinct, in 
a certain way. What does it mean? Oh, how my head 
aches ! 

Where am I? What has happened? What am I 
doing here, with my head done up in wet towels, lying 
on the grass under a tree? For a moment I think I am 
on my old grandfather’s farm, lying in the orchard, as I 
used to do. But that pain in my head! What does it 
mean ? And I feel so sick — oh, so sick ! 

I open my eyes and dimly see the men moving about. 
Ha! There’s Liv Allen and Davy Harris. It’s the 
Guardian office. There’s been an accident somehow, and 
I’ve been hurt. I’ll ask. But wait. How funny they 
look, all dressed in blue. Where are their working 
aprons ? I can’t think. It’s too much. My head ! My 
head ! I cannot rest a bit. Let me think. Where am I ? 

“Fall in for your supper, boys.” 

What’s that I hear? “Boys?” “Supper.” “Fall in!” 
Oh, my head ! How bewildered I am ! Oh ! 

In a minute, as if by magic, a veil seems to roll away 
and I recognized the voice I had heard as Jake Engle’s. 
Jake! Oh, yes, Jake, who has been appointed company 
cook, the cook for Company K, when in camp. It’s all 


7 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


coming back now. I remember, I enlisted. Yes, that 
march. The men falling around us, like so many tenpins. 
The terrible heat, I remember now. Was I, too, sun- 
struck ? 

With an effort I pull myself together and speak. Who 
was leaning over me but the captain, the kind-hearted 
Captain Irish — who had less than ten days more to live 
himself! 

“How do you feel, Joe?” he asked, taking my hand. 

“Got a terrible headache,” I replied. “But what hap- 
pened? Was I sunstruck?” 

“Yes, but you’re all right now, the doctor says.” 

The captain then told me that I had fallen out, like the 
others, a little after 3 o’clock, and that it was now after 6. 
I had been picked up and brought along by one of the 
ambulances. I had been unconscious for nearly three 
hours, and at one time they thought I was dead. 

The captain told me that we were at a place called 
Rockville, in the State of Maryland, twenty-two miles 
from Washington; We had only marched fourteen miles 
that day, but the sun was so hot and the boys so unused 
to marching that when they reached the camping-place, 
about 5 o’clock, there were less than two hundred of the 
Thirteenth present. Out of nine hundred men, only two 
hundred stood it out. Seven hundred men had suc- 
cumbed to the fierce heat of that hot September day and 
fallen by the wayside ! 

No man ever fully recovers from the effects of a gen- 
uine sunstroke. I have suffered from it in more ways 
than one, ever since. A few moments in the hot sun is 
sure to bring on symptoms that are danger-signals for 
precautionary measures. Perhaps that sunstroke has 
been the cause of many subsequent sins of omission and 
commission. I trust that my critics will bear this in mind 
and make allowance for shortcomings ! 

Captain Irish had in his hand as he spoke to me a box 
of some sort of salve or ointment. Noticing my inquir- 
ing look, he said : 

“When they pulled off your shoes, I noticed that your 
feet were bleeding from the blisters. I had some oint- 
ment that Mrs. Irish made. It is from an old family 



“ I had been unconseious for nearly three hours 


Page 78 







































. 































































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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


79 


receipt. I think your feet won’t hurt you so much now.” 

“But, captain,” I interrupted. “You don’t mean to say 
you have been rubbing my feet with ointment? You did 
not do it yourself, I hope?” 

His answer made a lump come into my throat. 

“Why certainly, Joe. Why not?” 

I turned my head, because I did not want him to see 
the tears in my eyes. Just think of it ! A captain bath- 
ing the sore feet of a private ! How many soldiers in the 
army can recall a case like that ? But there was only one 
Captain Irish. Do you wonder his men learned to wor- 
ship him in the short time he lived to serve his country? 
Do you wonder that his old soldiers touch their hats 
reverently to this day, when his name is mentioned? 
Not only was he a brave patriot, but a kind, tender- 
hearted men, beloved as a father by the men in his com- 
pany. 

But no matter what the after effect may be, the imme- 
dite recuperative powers inherent in a healthy boy of 
seventeen or eighteen are wonderful, and with the excep- 
tion of a slight headache and general played-outness, I 
felt quite well the next day, and \yent around pretty much 
as the others. 

The men who had fallen out like myself had returned 
to the regiment and we again assumed the appearance of 
a camp. 

To enhance our comfort our big Sibley tents arrived 
from somewhere unknown to us, and we were soon in as 
good a shape as at Camp Frelinghuysen in Newark, with 
the exception that there were a number who were still 
somewhat under the weather from the unaccustomed ex- 
posure and the fatigue of the march. 

This resulted in the introduction of, to us, a new fea- 
ture of army experience, the surgeon. Dr. Love and his 
assistant, Dr. Freeman, had put up their medical tent, and 
started business. And they were doing quite a business. 

The sick soldiers in the army are divided into three 
classes. One class includes those who are confined to 
their tents ; the second those who are confined to the hos- 
pital ; and the third those who are able to go to the surgi- 


8o 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


cal headquarters for their medicine. Those in the hos- 
pital or tents were visited as often as necessity required — 
the same as a doctor would do in civil life. With the 
others it was as follows : 

Every morning at 8 o’clock the drummer and fifer de- 
tailed at the ,regiment headquarters would sound the 
“sick call.” The tune played by the fifer was something 
like “Johnny, Get Your Gun,” but the way the boys in- 
terpreted it was this : 

“Come, get your blue pills, 

Blue pills, blue pills, 

Come, get your blue pills. 

Blue pills, blue/’ 

The point of this was that it was a tradition in the 
army that the surgeons had only one kind of medicine, 
and that was calomel ; or as commonly called, “blue pills.” 
If a soldier had a headache or a sore toe, the remedy was 
a blue pill. If an indiscreet forager had indulged in too 
much surreptitious green corn, the proper remedy was a 
blue pill. If in the ordinary course of events the ailment 
was of a contrary character, what you wanted was a good 
dose of blue pills. No matter what was the matter, the 
remedy was blue pills. 

I am not a doctor. Whether there was any truth in 
this story about blue pills being a regulation panacea for 
all the ills that flesh is heir to, I am unable to affirm. All 
that I can say is that it was an army tradition, and I 
appeal to veterans for verification. Hence the familiar 
words that the boys tacked on to “the sick call.” 

From the indications surrounding us we privates nat- 
urally imagined that we were going to have a long stay 
at Rockville camp. It was a pretty spot and we were 
nothing loath. We did not know that it was but a tem- 
porary halt of a pursuing army. 

General Lee and the Confederate forces were march- 
ing up into Maryland somewhere ahead of us. The com- 
manders of the Union army were, it seems, a little at a 
loss as to just what point Lee was steering for. That 
naturally involved the route we were to take. There were 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


81 


several roads to select from, but the question was which 
one would best intercept the enemy in his northward 
course. The enemy's intentions were therefore an essen- 
tial requisite. 

Such information was obtained by scouts, or by cav- 
alry reconnoisances. To make these investigations and 
bring back a non-conflicting report, occupied a day or so’s 
time. That was what we were waiting for. 

The head officers knew all this, of course; but we 
privates did not. The rank and file of an army know no 
more about what they are doing, why they stop here and 
go there, than so many sheep. We naturally supposed 
just then that we were going to have a good rest — to 
“wait till it got a little cooler.” 

In the light of history we know now that General Mc- 
Clellan ascertained that the enemy’s objective ipoint was 
the great strategic position of Harper’s Ferry. Hence 
McClellan picked out a route that converged with that of 
the enemy so that the two armies would probably inter- 
sect near South Mountain. And so they did! That is 
just where they “intersected.” 

While at Rockville we were “brigaded.” That means 
that we were assigned to a particular section of the army. 
We were put in General Gordon’s brigade of General 
Williams’ division of General Bank’s corps. The other 
regiments of our brigade were the Second Massachusetts, 
the Third Wisconsin, the Twenty-seventh Indiana, and 
the One Hundred and Seventh New York. With the 
exception of the latter and the Thirteenth Regiment, they 
were all veterans, and ranked with the best fighting troops 
of the army. Phew ! we didn’t relish that much ! 

General Gordon, the brigade commander, was a West 
Point graduate, and former colonel of the Second Massa- 
chusetts. Colonel Ruger, of the Third Division, was also 
a West Pointer. 

About noon on Tuesday, September 9, 1862, our hopes 
of a long rest were suddenly dispelled by an order to fall 
in at once to resume the march. 

This order was accompanied by instructions that 
seemed to mean business. It was that we would proceed 
in “light marching order.” We were told to leave be- 


82 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


hind our commodious Sibley tents (which we never laid 
eyes on again), We were soon told to leave our knap- 
sacks. Most of those had been left by the wayside; but 
that was the order to be obeyed by those who had stuck 
to their “trunks.” 

“What does this mean?” I asked one of the Second 
Massachusetts veterans. 

“It means a fight !” said he. 




THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


83 


CHAPTER XV. 

A BIVOUAC. 


“A FIGHT?” 

“Yes.” 

“A battle?” 

“Yes.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“Oh,” calmly replied the Second Massachusetts man, 
“we old soldiers know the signs. When you have been 
halted a day or so, and then suddenly along comes an 
order to git up and git, in light marching order, that gen- 
erally means that you are going to get into a scrimmage 
mighty soon, or somewhere pretty near it.” 

“How does a fellow feel when he gets into a battle?” 
I asked, nervously. 

“Are you scared ?” he asked. 

“Well, no; not exactly that. But I don’t feel com- 
fortable.” 

“Own up now, like a man, that you’re scared.” 

“Well— a little bit.” 

To tell the truth my teeth were chattering. 

“You’ll be scared a darned sight worse, I reckon,” said 
the unfeeling bean-eater. “Scared is no name for it. 
The man never lived that wasn’t scared in a battle. Put 
that down. But the worst part of it is just before you 
go in — when you’re waiting to go in.” (A soldier always 
referred to entering a battle as “going in.”) 

“What are your sensations then?” 

“Pshaw, pard, I couldn’t begin to tell you, except that 
you’re scared, awfully scared, and that’s all there is 
about it.” 

“Were you ever wounded?” 

“No; nor I don’t want to be, neither. If ever I’m shot, 
I want to be plunked dead and be done with it. I’ve seen 


8 4 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


enough men wounded not to care to be wounded myself. 
But it’s no use o’ my telling you. From the looks o’ 
things I guess you’ll know all about it yourself before 
long.” 

Now this was interesting talk, wasn’t it? It made the 
patriotism ooze out of my little toe. What with the 
marching and the hot weather and the horrible prospects 
ahead, I was rapidly becoming very sorry that I had been 
such a fool as to enlist. 

But soldiers are kept too busy to have much time for 
reflection, and activity is the best possible antidote for de- 
pression of spirits. The preparations for the start en- 
grossed our attention. And after the customary prelimi- 
nary delay we were again on the march. Quite a number 
of sick and disabled men were left behind to catch up 
with the regiment when they had recovered. 

In the Union army, as it started on that Maryland cam- 
paign, there were about one hundred thousand men. 
General Lee’s army contained about sixty thousand men. 
We were about five to three of the enemy. Perhaps had 
we known that then, we would have felt a little better. 
And then again, perhaps we wouldn’t ! 

The army moved forward in three columns — that is, by 
three roads. History tells us that the right wing, under 
General Burnside, comprised the latter’s own corps and 
that of General Hooker. This was on the right. The 
center column was composed of Generals Sumner and 
Mansfield’s corps, under command of Sumner. General 
Franklin’s corps and General Couch’s division were on 
the left, while General Fitz-John Porter and his troops 
brought up the rear. 

We know all this now. We didn’t at the time. All 
that we knew, was that we were part and parcel of a 
string of soldiers of apparently countless numbers, march- 
ing along toward some fate, we know not what. John 
Ick said it was to “a slaughter house.” 

After a march that was not so fatiguing as that to 
Rockville, for the weather was slightly cooler and we 
were getting somewhat used to it, we encamped for the 
night at a place called Middlebrook. Here we were 
initiated into the art of “every man his own cook.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


85 


I don’t know where all the tomato cans came from. 
Perhaps they were discarded relics of the officers’ mess, 
for the officers’ provisions were carried in the baggage 
wagons and usually comprised a greater variety than the 
menu of the “men.” Perhaps it will not be generally 
remembered that this was before the days of canned 
goods. Tomatoes and sardines were about the only things 
put up in tin cans in 1862. Fresh vegetables were not 
attainable the year round, as they are now. 

Some of the boys had provided themselves with little 
tin pails ; I had not, but I was fortunate enough to find a 
tomato can and a piece of wire, and making a bale of the 
latter I soon had a little pail. These tomato cans were 
a good deal better than the “boughten” pails, for, the tin 
being thinner, you could boil water quicker, and when the 
can gets too much smoked and burned you could throw it 
away and pick up another. 

Taking some lessons from the older soldiers, we pre- 
pared our own suppers. For the edification of house- 
wives and cooks I’ll tell you how we soldiers made coffee. 

Take a tomato-can pail and fill it with water from the 
nearest spring or brook. Take a handful of ground coffee 
from your haversack and sprinkle it on top of the water ; 
the most of it will float. Get a long stick and put the pail 
on the end of it and hold it over the fire. Of course a 
dozen or fifteen other fellows are scrambling for the hot- 
test place in the fire with their coffee pails, and you must 
fight for your chance. You’re lucky if you don’t get a 
plunk in the nose. After awhile the water begins to boil, 
and suddenly the coffee rises to the top, in a creamy sort 
of a chocolate color. Then quickly dash from your can- 
teen a squirt or so of cold water. Instantly the grounds 
will settle to the bottom and your coffee will be quite 
clear. As the orthodox recipes say, “serve hot.” 

That is the way army coffee is made and it isn’t bad 
either. At least it is as good as coffee can be without 
cream. We had sugar and “sweetened to taste,” and 
generally drank right out of the tin pail, for cups were a 
useless bother. 

With a bit of fat pork toasted in the fire on the end of 
a stick, and the hard-tack somewhat softened by soaking 


86 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


in the coffee, it made a tolerably fair meal. And this was 
the average meal of the Union soldier on the march 
throughout the war. Somehow we got a knack of crack- 
ing the hard-tack with our teeth and they by no means 
seemed as hard as at first. A hard-tack is similar to the 
Hebrew unleavened bread of Passover times. In fact it 
is practically the same. No salt is used in its manufac- 
ture, and if kept dry it will last for years. Hence that 
brand of “B. C.” wouldn’t be so inappropriate after all. 

It must be acknowledged that there could be no more 
picturesque sight than an army of soldiers in bivouac 
after a day’s march. When the order came to halt, which 
was generally in the vicinity of some body of fresh water, 
say a brook or a spring or lake, there would be a general 
scramble for fuel. The choicest fuel of all was a rail 
fence. Then the dry twigs that lay around under the 
trees. Then the trees themselves. Then the boards arid 
shingles from every old house and barn in sight. 

An enormous flock of Nebraska grasshoppers could 
not create such sudden devastation. In five minutes not 
a vestige of a rail fence could be seen. A pretty strong 
guard was the only way of preventing the immediate de- 
molishing of a building. In three days’ time, should the 
army stop, nothing but stumps could be seen where there 
had stood a vast forest. In a friendly section certain re- 
strictions were placed on the troops. In an enemy’s 
country, unlimited license to destroy was the unwritten 
law. 

There were generally one or two camp fires to a com- 
pany, besides additional ones for the officers, and at the 
respective headquarters. In the one hundred thousand 
troops encamped that night there were perhaps two thou- 
sand or two thousand five hundred campfires. The en- 
camping army covered ground twelve or sixteen miles 
square. 

Just imagine a grand concourse of soldiers scattered 
over a tract of land ten or fifteen miles square. Scatter 
among these two or three thousand bonfires, each one 
producing a big volume of smoke. Around each fire a 
crowd of men, cooking their suppers, smoking their pipes, 
singing and laughing. Add the indescribable braying of 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


87 


the mules, a fife and drum here, a bugle there and occa- 
sionally a brass band (there weren’t many of them) play- 
ing. Imagine all this, and you’ll have a vague sort of an 
idea of the army as it stopped that night at Middlebrook, 
Maryland. 

And the songs the soldiers used to sing! It mattered 
not how little one knew how to sing, he was expected to 
join in the chorus. When on the march, and not too tired, 
the whole army would suddenly break out with that 
famous old song to the tune of “John Brown’s body 

“We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree, 

We’ll hang Jeff Davis on* a sour apple tree, 

We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree, 

While his soul goes marching on.” 

When sitting around the campfire a different class of 
songs were sung, such as “Dixie” : 

“I wish I was in de land of cotton. 

Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom, 

Look away, look away, look away to Dixie land.” 

Or another to which an additional verse was added for 
each year the war continued, which ran : 

“In eighteen hundred and sixty-one 
Free-ball ! Free-ball ! 

In eighteen hundred and sixty-one 
Free-ball ! Free-ball ! 

In eighteen hundred and sixty-one 
The war had then but just begun 
And we’ll all drink stone blind, 

Johnny, fill up the bowl.” 

The latter verse will no doubt cause a smile to appear 
on the lips of all soldiers who see it, for it will involun- 
tarily recall to their mind the text of some of the others, 
which would hardly look well in print ! 


88 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A GREEN PICKET. 

In the previous chapter I told how the boys were sit- 
ting around the Middlebrook camp fires, smoking and 
singing. But “there were others,” as the saying goes, 
and these were on picket duty. Every night, whether in 
camp or on the march, a 0 certain number of men are de- 
tailed to do picket duty. They are to watch that the 
enemy doesn’t get in, and that soldiers don’t get out. 

One of Company K’s picket detail was the irrepressible 
John Ick. The officer of the guard had a hard time in- 
structing John Ick in the duties of a sentry. John’s post, 
by the way, was under a tree at the edge of a wood. It 
is perhaps hardly necessary to say that there wasn’t a 
“Johnny Reb” within thirty or forty miles. But John 
took the assignment with great dignity, with as much 
apparent determination to do his duty as if the woods 
swarmed with the soldiers of the enemy. 

“Now you must be very careful,” said Lieutenant Scott, 
the officer of the guard. “You must not let any one pass 
without the countersign.” 

“Vot vas the goundersign, Mr. Scott?” asked Ick. 

“It is a word that must be whispered in your ear like 
this — ‘Brandywine.’ That’s the countersign.” 

“Brandywine. Oh, yes, I’ll remember dot ; dat is 
something to trink, like lager beer. I’ll just think by ein 
glass lager beer, and don’t forget dot what you call him — 
dot gountersign.” 

Lieutenant Scott instructed Ick in the modus operandi 
of treating approaching friend or foe during the night, 
and particularly enjoined upon him not to let his gun 
pass out of his hands, no matter who it might be. Nor 
must he let any one pass without the countersign. 

“Not even der captain?” asked Ick. 

“No, not even the captain.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


89 


“Nobotty ?” 

‘‘Nobody whatever.” 

“Now I onderstand, dot’s all ri-et,” said John. “Iffer 
everybotty comes by here vot don’t des gountersign have, 
I shoot ’em, eh?” 

Later in the night Lieutenant Scott suggested to Cap- 
tain Irish that he test John Ick while he was on his post., 
He did so. 

“Who comes there, alretty?” demanded Ick. This was 
the correct salutation, for a wonder, except for the 
“alretty.” 

“It’s I — Captain Irish,” was the reply. 

“Oh, dot’s all ri-et. How you was, captain? It was a 
nice night, ain’t it?” 

“Yes, a very nice night. But say, John, you are not 
holding your gun right. Let me show you.” 

Ick handed the captain his rifle. 

“You must hold it this way,” said the captain, bring- 
ing it to a “charge bayonet” and touching John with the 
point of it against his stomach. 

“Don’t do dot captain ; by gimminey, you almost stick 
it through me alretty.” 

“Now look here, John,” said the captain severely, “sup- 
posing I wasn’t Captain Irish. Suppose I was a rebel.” 

“But you vasn’t no reppel, I know’d you was Captain 
Irish.” 

“Yes, but suppose it was so dark you couldn’t see me, 
or suppose it was General McClellan ?” 

“Dot would be all riet, not?” 

“But suppose it was some one else who passed himself 
off under a false name, and after getting your gun, killed 
you ?” 

“Mine Gott ! I dond think py dot.” 

“Now, John,” said the captain, kindly, “I only did this 
to try you. Let it be a lesson. Never let your gun out 
of your hands while on picket, not even if it is the Presi- 
dent of the United States.” 

“By gimminey. I dond give dot gun to Kaiser Wil- 
helm if he comes any more.” 

John Ick evidently understood this part of the business 
now. And let me say right here that that identical test 


90 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


was tried on every new recruit in the army, and in five 
cases out of ten with a similar result. 

About an hour afterward the “grand rounds” came 
along. The “grand rounds” was a regular nocturnal 
visit, usually about midnight, to test the vigilance of the 
picket lines." Some high officer, but more generally the 
officer of the day, accompanied by a small body guard, 
performed it. As they approached John Ick they were 
met with the regulation salutation: 

“Who comes there ?” 

“The grand rounds.” 

“The grand rounds,” answered Ick, “I dond know vat 
dot grand rounds vas, but you dond fool me any more 
alretty like dot Captain Irish. I vas holding dot gun all 
ri-et, and dond you forget it.” 

“What nonsense is this ?” asked the grand officer, step- 
ping forward. 

“No you dond do dot,” exclaimed Ick. “You dond 
got my gun some more, and you dond got py here ober 
you dond say dot gountersign. Say lager beer !” 

“What?” exclaimed the astonished officer. 

“Say lager beer.” 

“What is lager beer ? What do you mean by that, you 
stupid blockhead ?” demanded the officer. 

“Dot vas de gountersign alretty. You dond pass by 
ober you dond say lager beer.” 

“Who told you the countersign was lager beer?” 

“Mister Scott.” 

“Who is Mister Scott?” 

“Vy, dond you know him? Dot vas Jim, der lufften- 
nant by Company K.” 

“Did he tell you the countersign was lager beer?” 

“Yah.” 

“Didn't he say Brandywine ?” 

“Brandywine? Oh, ya! Dot vas it. I forgot him 
alretty. I know’d it vas something to drink, and I 
thought it was lager beer, py gimminey. You shust say 
Brandywine. Dat’s all ri-et !” 

“How long have you been in the service?” asked the 
officer. 

“Vot service?” 



“ You dond pass by ober you dond say lager beer.” 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


9i 


“The army. How long have you been a soldier ?” 

“Oh, about six week, alretty.” 

“Been on picket before ?” 

“Nein. Dot vos de first times/’ 

“I thought so,” said the grand officer. And then he 
proceeded to explain that he must never give away the 
countersign ; that it must come from the person who 
wanted to get past, and not from the soldier on guard. 
Although outwardly severe, the officers made all allow- 
ances for such green recruits. It was the way they in- 
structed them in their duties. And it made a more last- 
ing lesson than any amount of school class tuition. John 
Ick learned his lesson well, and was proven to be a faith- 
ful picket on many a subsequent occasion. 

The incidents just related were duplicated in a thou- 
sand instances. The men, taken from all phases of life, 
were utterly ignorant of military duty. There was not 
time to put them through a regular graduated course of 
instruction, and they were taught in this eminently prac- 
tical way. 

The next morning, September 10th, the Thirteenth, 
with its brigade companies, marched off on a line about 
parallel to the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. The dis- 
tance covered on that day and the next was short, and 
the marches were comparatively easy. 

Excitement began to be manifested, however, from the 
fact that we began to see evidences that the enemy had 
passed along that way not many days previous. There 
were signs of camps from the ashes where there had been 
fires. The rail fences had disappeared. In fact the trail 
of the military serpent was everywhere visible. 

It was evident to all that we were getting into close 
quarters. There were frequent consultations among the 
officers, and an increase in their earnestness and in the 
severity of their orders. A peculiar atmosphere of im- 
pending disaster surrounded us that was indescribable. 
That sensation is a familiar one to old soldiers, but it 
was our first experience and there was an uncanny weird- 
ness about it that was not at all pleasant. 

We were not quite so close upon the enemy, however, 
as we private soldiers imagined, although, as it subse- 


92 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


quently transpired, a couple of clays more marching would 
bring us in sight of the “Johnnies.” 

On the 1 2th of September we suddenly came to quite a 
good sized stream. We were told it was the Monocacy 
River. 

There were no bridges nor boats ; but an army doesn’t 
stop for a little thing like that. We were simply and 
coolly ordered to “cross the river,” and so we did. 

Did you ever “ford a river”? 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


93 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A FREDERICK CITY GIRL. 

We were ordered to ford the river. 

The Monocacy River isn’t a very formidable stream nor 
is it in the summer season very deep. On this occasion it 
came up about to the waist at the place picked out as a 
“ford,” although it was deeper above and below. But it 
was our first experience at fording a stream, and conse- 
quently accompanied with much interest. 

The irrepressible and original John Ick wanted to take 
off his clothes and cross in a state of nature; but to his 
infinite disgust that would not be permitted, as such an 
operation would take too much time. 

The government does not object, when soldiers are 
marching, to their discarding any superfluous weight in 
the shape of clothing or eatables. But when it comes to 
those things that absolutely pertain to war the case is 
different. One dan’t throw away guns or ammunition, no 
matter how heavy such things may be — and they were 
heavy enough. On all occasions the greatest care must 
be taken to keep the rifle in good order and the cart- 
ridges dry. 

In fording a river the cartridge and percussion-cap 
boxes and belts were unstrapped and fastened at the 
bayonet end of the guns. By carrying the rifles on the 
shoulder the ammunition was kept above the water and 
dry. No matter if the contents of the haversack were 
ruined. No matter if the blankets and other wearing 
apparel were saturated. The government cared naught 
for that, so long as the ammunition was intact. 

Even in the summer season it is not pleasant to cross a 
stream containing two or three or four feet of water in 
one’s clothes. In the winter time, as many of us learned 
afterward, it is accompanied with little short of torture. 
In warm weather it is simply a question of discomfort. 


94 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Several pounds of weight seem to be added to the sol- 
dier’s load. The clothing, uncomfortable at the best of 
times, sticks closer than a brother, and clings and pulls 
one’s legs with a force almost inconceivable. The wet 
stockings flop about in the coarse shoes with a “ker-sock,” 
“ker-sock” that sounds like a suction pump, and ma- 
terially assists in the development of additional painful 
blisters. 

As each man emerges on the other side of the stream, 
he sheds his quota of water, until the ground grows soggy 
and soft and the mud deeper and deeper until it is soon, 
not only ankle-deep, but knee-deep. With one’s wet 
clothes increasing in weight, the climb through the sticky 
mud up the embankment of the stream was a tiresome 
task. It was also a tedious affair, for there is always con- 
siderable delay in fording a river or creek, and then comes 
that inevitable, wearisome scamper to catch up with those 
who have gone ahead. 

A funny thing it was to see the ammunition mules. 
Each one of these stubborn but interesting animals had 
two large boxes of cartridge slung over his back, one on 
each side. The boxes just cleared the water, if every- 
thing was all right. But a mule doesn’t like swiftly run- 
ning water between his legs. It makes him discouraged. 
And when you discourage a mule his usefulness imme- 
diately departs. A discouraged mule invariably gives up 
and lies down, no matter where he may be. 

The mules had no respect for the strict orders about 
keeping the cartridges dry. One of them lay down in 
the water, rolled over, and shed his load. The other 
mules saw this, and at once caught on to the scheme. 
The practice became epidemic. Mule after mule lay 
down in the middle of the stream, tumbled off his two 
heavy cases of cartridges, righted himself again and 
scrambled up the muddy bank with an expression of 
countenance that failed to indicate the least compunction 
of conscience. Those mules must have been in league 
with the enemy, for I heard one of the officers say that 
they had dumped enough cartridges in the Monocacy 
River that day to fight a good sized battle. Every car- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


95 


tridge that got wet was ruined, of course, for the powder 
covering was only paper. 

Fortunately for us we did not march very far after 
fording the river, and when we got into camp all the new 
soldiers took off their wet trousers and stockings and 
hung them on the bushes to dry. As we cooked our sup- 
per that night we resembled the bouffe soldiers in a Ger- 
man opera. 

Johnny Neild came near getting into fight with Reddy 
Mahar by remarking on the cleanliness of his pedal 
extremities. 

“I believe that is the first time you ever had your feet 
washed in your life,” said Neild. 

“You’re a liar !” returned Reddy. 

Neild was going to take it up; but Hank Van Orden 
stepped between them and prevented a continuation of 
hostilities. 

On the next day we reached Frederick City, and we 
found that we were getting closer upon the enemy than 
we imagined, that is, closer than we privates imagined. 
I suppose the officers knew all about it all along. The 
rebels had passed through Frederick only the day before. 
Indeed it is said that some of their rear guards were 
found in the city still when our advance guard reached 
the place, and that a few shots were fired. I didn’t hear 
anything of that sort, however, or perhaps I wouldn’t 
have been so unconcerned. 

My remembrance of Frederick City is a very pleasant 
one. The place consisted in that day, essentially, of one 
large street. I remember being struck particularly with 
a wonder as to what the people did for a living. Outside 
of the stores, there seemed to be no business. Brought 
up within the sound of the hum of the busy mills of Pater- 
son, it struck me that there ought to be some factories or 
other evidence of industry. But Frederick was a “market 
town” only, which was something that in those days I did 
not understand. 

Frederick is the city made famous by the poet in the 
beautiful poem about “Barbara Fritchie.” To be sure 
later historians have said that there never was a Barbara 
Fritchie in Frederick, and that the flag incident was a pure 


9 6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


romance. But that makes no difference; the story of 
Barbara Fritchie will always remain associated with 
Frederick City. 

And by the way they say that “Sheridan’s Ride” was 
a fake, and lots of other things are false, including the 
“Charge of the Light Brigade,” the flood and the ark, and 
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. But we’re here 
anyway, and we must have had ancestors, and who can 
dispute that there was an Adam and an Eve? I frown 
upon such despicable attempts to disprove facts by new 
theories. If it keeps on that way, some busybody will 
even throw out a suspicion that there are romances in this 
war story. So on general principles I stand up for all 
the interesting old traditions, including Barbara Fritchie ! 

The alleged incident of Barbara and the flag occurred 
the day before we reached Frederick, so that we didn’t 
see it ourselves. But we saw the house from the upper 
window of which she defiantly flaunted the Stars and 
Stripes. At least I saw every house in Frederick, and so 
can truthfully testify that I saw the Fritchie place of resi- 
dence. 

I don’t know how the citizens of Frederick treated the 
rebel army the day before, but I do know that they treated 
us “bang up.” I went into a store and bought a pipe and 
some tobacco, and the proprietor wouldn’t take a cent. 
The fact leaking out that cigar dealer’s stock was soon 
completely disposed of on the same terms. The bakers 
gave us bread and cake. The citizens gave us pies and 
other luxuries, and pretty Maryland girls stood in their 
doorways with pitchers of milk. 

There could be no discounting the fact of the hospitality 
of the people of Frederick City. They knew the Union 
army was coming close behind the rebels, and had made 
considerable preparation for us. The women of Fred- 
erick served us with sandwiches, cakes, pies, roasted 
chickens, hams, and what not. 

During a temporary halt in the main street of the little 
city the boys were strung along the sidewalks, in front of 
the stores and residences, partaking of a lunch that was 
to us a regular feast. It was my good fortune to be 
served by a very pretty girl of about seventeen or eighteen 



Page 97 












THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


97 


years. As I stood there, leaning against the fence of the 
little door-yard in front of the cottage, with a chicken wing 
in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, I ventured 
into a little conversation with my fair entertainer. 

“Did you do this for the other fellows ?” I asked, feel- 
ing my ground. 

“You mean the rebels, I suppose,” said she. 

“Yes; I didn’t say ‘rebel/ because I didn’t know how 
you would take it.” 

“That’s all right,” said she reassuringly. “That’s what 
I call them, anyhow. No, we didn’t as a general thing, 
treat ‘the other fellows,’ as you call them, in this way. 
Some of the people did, but not many. You see the most 
of us are Union folks. Then again, when the rebels 
passed through they seemed to be in a big hurry. Most 
of the houses and nearly all the stores were closed up, 
till it looked like Sunday. We had been told that they 
were going to clean out all the stores and then set fire to 
the town. We were much frightened, I can assure you, 
and we didn’t feel safe until we began to see the blue- 
coated soldiers.” 

“So you’re a Union girl,” I remarked. 

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “And I have a brother in the 
Third Maryland ” 

“The Third. Maryland,” I interrupted, “why I believe 
that regiment is in our division — General Williams’?” 

“Yes; that’s the name,” she replied. “Fred wrote me 
that General Williams was his commander. Perhaps you 
' may meet Fred.” 

“Very likely,” I answered. “But what is his last 
name ?” 

“Summers.” 

“Fred Summers. And what name shall I use when I 
say I saw his sister?” 

“Mabel” (with a slight blush). 

“Is your brother older than you are ?” 

“No.” 

“What, younger ? He must be a mere boy.” 

“He is neither older nor younger,” was her answer, and 
she blushed again as she said: “We are twins — twin 
brother and sister.” 


9 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“That’s nice,” said I. “And — and if he is anything 
like his twin sister, Fred must be a handsome fellow.” 

I was getting along pretty well considering I hadn’t 
known the girl five minutes. But I couldn’t help it. I 
really meant it, you know. I never saw a girl blush so 
easily as Mabel Summers did. My last remarks suffused 
her face with carnation. Now I come to recall it, I don’t 
wonder. 

“Have you any correspondent in the army?” I ven- 
tured. % 

“Oh, yes ; my brother.” 

“Any one else?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to have one?” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“I think I would make a good correspondent.” 

Another blush on the part of Mabel. 

“I — I hardly think it would be proper. And,” with a 
little show of pretty petulance, “I think your suggestion 
is a little bold, not to say somewhat impudent.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mabel — I mean Miss Summers — 
but you know that soldiers must be bold, not to say im- 
pudent.” 

This play on her words made her smile, and she asked 
me my name. 

“Joe,” I replied. 

I don’t know how much further the promising flirtation 
would have gone had it not just at this point been inter- 
rupted by a sergeant, accompanied by a file of men. The 
non-commissioned officers asked me what I was doing 
there ? 

“Eating and talking and having a good time,” said I. 

“What regiment do you belong to?” asked the ser- 
geant. 

“Thirteenth New Jersey.” 

“What corps?” 

I told him. 

“Don’t you know,” he asked, “that your command 
started off some time ago? Take him in charge, men” 
(turning to his companions). 

“Who are you ?” I asked indignantly. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


99 


“The provost guard.” 

That was the first time I had ever heard of such a 
thing as the “provost guard,” but I considered that it was 
advisable to go along without making any fuss. I was 
greatly surprised to learn that my regiment had already 
started off. 

I turned to bid farewell to the pretty little Frederick 
City girl. A spirit of mischief seized me, and I said : 

“Good-by, Mabel.” 

Mabel’s blush was on schedule time, as usual, but that 
did not prevent her taking up the implied challenge, for 
she coquettishly answered : 

“Good-by, Joe.” 

That was the first and last time I ever saw Mabel Sum- 
mers. The reader may perhaps think we were both a 
little “fresh” to indulge in such familiarity on such short 
acquaintance; but the present generation does not under- 
stand the feeling that prevailed at that time toward the 
soldier boys. The blue uniform of Uncle Sam’s service 
was an open sesame. No one wearing it needed an in- 
troduction to anybody. The girls seemed to regard every 
soldier as a hero. Perhaps it is better for the reputation 
of some of us that they were never undeceived. 

I have often wondered what became of Mabel Sum- 
mers. Is she living yet ? Perhaps, and possibly a grand- 
mother. 

But I forgot that I was in the hands of the provost 
guard — a prisoner! 

LOFC. 


IOO 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PROVOST GUARD. 

Let me introduce the reader to the “provost guard.” 

The provost guard was what might be called the police 
force of the army. Their duty was to look after the 
recreant soldiers, stragglers, camp followers, hangers-on, 
and the like. 

People unacquainted with war often ask how it was that 
there were not more desertions. How was it that the 
men, suffering from the fatigue of the march, the hard- 
ships and exposures of the camp and the awful horror of 
the battle, did not escape through the pickets and run 
through the guard lines and — go home ? 

It was the provost guard that prevented all this. 

Imagine a man in a battle. What is there between him 
and liberty? Behind him are first, the non-commissioned 
officers, then the commissioned officers; then the “turkey 
buzzards.” This consisted of a line of cavalry, generally 
armed with long spears, on the end of which were strips 
of red flannel, the latter curious insignia giving them the 
singularly appropriate title of “turkey buzzards.” You 
couldn’t get past this line without a written pass, or a 
show of blood issuing from a wound. So much for a 
battle. 

At other times, and practically in fact at all times, there 
were regimental and corps guards and outside these the 
army pickets. Suppose you escaped through all these? 
Everywhere you went, through every city of the land, you 
would meet with soldiers of the provost guard, who would 
arrest you if you couldn’t show written authority for 
being absent from your regiment. 

There were provost guards even in Paterson, where I 
lived, perhaps in uniform, maybe not, and more than one 
deserter was arrested there and sent back. If a man 
hadn’t a written pass he was considered a deserter. I 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ioi 


might mention the names of several now prominent 
Patersonians in this connection, but will not. There 
would doubtless havq been more if they could have simi- 
larly succeeded in getting “through the lines.” 

Up in the mountains not many miles from many cities 
there were huts and caves that were utilized by deserters 
for months in the latter part of the war. These deserters 
were where the provost guard could not find them, and 
they were consequently safe. They came sneaking back 
to town in the night when the war was over. 

Not many deserters suffered the penalty prescribed for 
that offense — being shot. President Lincoln was very 
tender-hearted in this respect. Scores — I might perhaps 
safely say hundreds — of deserters who had been sen- 
tenced to death were pardoned or had their sentence com- 
muted by the kind-hearted president. In all my experi- 
ence I saw only two men shot for desertion. That ter- 
rible sight I will describe before long. 

The worst penalty suffered by a deserter was what 
might be called the social ostracism to which he was sub- 
jected on his return to his regiment. He was ignored, 
disrespected, and treated with contempt generally in a 
way that was unbearable. No one sympathized with him 
in sickness or trouble, he was put to the hardest duties 
and most menial work, and his life was made such that 
the poor victim often prayed for death. I heard of two 
men committing suicide because they could not stand this 
treatment from their companions when they had returned 
to the regiment after deserting. It is a singular fact that 
some of the men who wanted to — or even tried to — desert 
were the most severe in their treatment of the ones who 
had succeeded — and been caught. 

If I deserted I would a thousand times rather be shot 
than go back to the regiment. 

The offense for which I had been arrested by the pro- 
vost guard was technically called “straggling.” Any 
man who fell out of the ranks or otherwise got behind his 
regiment while on a march, unless taken sick or wounded, 
was called a straggler. It was the most common of all 
army offenses. It was considered the least serious. The 
punishment was scarcely ever anything worse than being 


102 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


conducted back to your regimental headquarters, and per- 
haps receiving a mild reprimand from the colonel or 
captain. 

I did not know this then, however, and felt somewhat 
nervous as I was waiting my turn to be disposed of at 
the headquarters of the provost guard when the army 
halted that night. I began to think that thirteen was an 
unlucky number for me. I had enlisted in the Thirteenth 
Regiment and here I was arrested on the 13th of Septem- 
ber. What had I done? Had I deserted? Would I be 
shot? 

A comical incident interrupted my reverie. I was in 
the midst of some old soldiers. The officers were almost 
as dirty as the men in appearance. Most of them were 
in their undress uniforms and few of them wore shoulder 
straps or other insignia of office. A man in a dark suit, 
which was presumably originally black, was leaning 
against a tree, smoking a briarwood pipe. 

A tall, gawky-looking fellow of gigantic build, being 
over six feet high and heavy in proportion, with long, 
bushy, sandy whiskers, stalked up. Some of the men 
saluted and addressed him as “colonel,” although he wore 
no sign of a silver eagle, the insignia of that office. The 
slouchy-looking man smoking the pipe did not salute and 
this seemingly attracted the attention of the other. 

The colonel, for such he was, addressed the smoker, 
and asked him gruffly : 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Smoking,” was the laconic reply, and not very civilly 
at that. 

“Who the devil are you, anyhow?” asked the colonel. 

“I am the chaplain of the — th Ohio,” replied he. 
“Now who in h — — 1 are you ?” 

Such language from a chaplain collapsed the colonel 
and every one else who stood around. The colonel looked 
at the chaplain a moment and said : 

“Good for you, chaplain; I’ve got some good ‘com- 
missary’ in my tent. Come along and sample it.” 

The colonel and chaplain walked off arm and arm to- 
gether as sociably as if they had known each other for 
years. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


103 


For the edification of the reader I will explain that 
“commissary” was the whisky furnished by the govern- 
ment to the army for medical purposes. The staff officers 
were generally “sick,” and this was their proverbial pan- 
acea and preventive. We sick privates were fed on blue 
pills. We never got whisky, unless we stole it — which, 
by the way, we occasionally did. The door on the wine 
cellar of the officers was nothing more secure than a can- 
vas tent flap, you know ! 

When my turn came in the line of delinquents I was 
sentenced to nothing worse than to be sent back to mv 
regiment under guard, and I reached Company K just 
as the boys were boiling their coffee for supper. A num- 
ber of others had been similarly picked up by the provost 
guard and brought back, and nothing was said about it. 

I found the boys in a state of considerable excitement. 
The news had leaked out among them somehow that we 
were close upon the rebels. There had even been some 
shooting further out to the front and some slightly 
wounded soldiers had been brought through to the rear. 

The pervading sentiment seemed to be that we would 
have a battle on the morrow. Who can describe the feel- 
ings and emotions of a soldier on the eve of an expected 
battle? As for myself, my mental sufferings were acute. 

I supposed then that it was because it was my first 
experience, but I subsequently learned that that did not 
in fact make much difference. I firmly believe that with 
most men each subsequent battle requires more nerve to 
enter. 

“How do you feel, Rats?” I asked of Davy Harris. 
We always called him “Rats.” It was a name the boys 
in the Guardian office had given him. Harris was at that 
moment very pale. 

Just as I spoke there was a sound of distant musketry. 
It sounded like a far-off explosion of firecrackers. It 
was only an exchange of picket shots. We didn’t know. 
We could fairly feel a quiver of quiet excitement sweep 
through the camps. For a moment every one stopped 
talking and there was a stillness so impressive that the 
crackling of the camp fires sounded like pistol shots. 


104 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Then there was a low murmur of many voices. That I 
had turned pale myself I could feel. 

As soon as I could get my self-possession again, and 
saw that general conversation had been resumed with the 
cessation of the shooting, I repeated my question to Davy 
Harris as to his personal emotions at that particular 
moment. 

Davy did not reply for a minute or so. Then he quietly 
arose, turned his back to me, and emphatically ordered : 

“Kick me !” 

“What?” I asked, not fairly understanding. 

“Kick me !” 

“What do you mean, anyhow ?” 

“Kick me!” Davy answered for the third time, d la 
Amelie Rives when she wrote her famous three-time 
“Kiss Me!” 

Then I saw what he meant. It was his expressive way 
of indicating his feelings in response to my inquiry as to 
how he felt then and there on the eve of an expected 
battle. He offered no explanation of his singular reply, 
nor was any needed. He simply wanted me to kick him 
for enlisting. I felt the same way myself. I would 
have liked to have some one kick me then and there for 
listening to the persuasive eloquence of the patriotic 
orators on the steps of the Old Main Street bank building 
in Paterson whose speeches had induced me to enlist. I 
should also have liked to have kicked those self-same 
orators ! 

Some great things had happened that day, of which we 
privates did not know at the time, nor for a long while 
after, for it remained for the newspapers and the his- 
torians to tell what had taken place. 

Some of these things will be related in the next chapter. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


105 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SIGNS OF A BATTLE. 

As said in the previous chapter, some great things had 
occurred on that day (September 13, 1862), which we 
did not know about at the time. Upon that day General 
Lee issued an order directing Stonewall Jackson to pro- 
ceed to Harper’s Ferry by the way of Sharpsburg, where 
he was to cross the Potomac River and thus make a rear 
movement, while at the same time General McLaws was 
to go direct, by the way of Middletown, and seize Mary- 
land Heights, while General Walker was to cross the river 
below Harper’s Ferry and take possession of Loudon 
Heights. The same order of General Lee contained the 
information that the remainder of the Confederate army 
would remain in the neighborhood of Boonesborough or 
Hagerstown, and stay there till rejoined by the troops 
detailed for the capture of Harper’s Ferry. 

Harper’s Ferry was, from a warlike standpoint, a most 
important strategic point. It is a cleft or opening in the 
mountains, where two rivers join. The letter Y is about 
the shape of the confluence of the Potomac and Shenan- 
doah rivers. On one side of the Potomac are Maryland 
Heights, on the other side, Loudon Heights, and the third 
mountain is called Bolivar Heights. It is a natural gate- 
way, the only passage through which is the narrow road 
along the side of the river. The Chesapeake and Ohio 
canal runs along the river on the Maryland side. It will 
be thus appreciated, even by the reader who has no knowl- 
edge whatever of military matters, that this was a most 
important strategic point. 

If General Lee obtained possession of this it would give 
him the key to an important position. That is the reason 
that Harper’s Ferry played such an important part in 
many instances during the course of the war. It is not 
my province here to dilate upon the cowardly manner in 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


106 

which Harper’s Ferry was evacuated in the face of the 
enemy at about this time. 

Well, this important order of General Lee, involving 
the whole plan and scheme of the rebel army, in some 
mysterious way fell into the hands of General McClellan 
a few hours after it was issued. It was said that Gen- 
eral McClellan had a copy of it as soon as the generals 
on the rebel side, to whom duplicates had been addressed. 
How General McClellan got that order no one ever knew. 
Some said that it was procured by a scout. Others that 
it came through the hands of a spy. Still others say that 
it was sold to the Northern general by a Confederate 
officer, the same as the secret plans of the French were 
recently sold to the Germans, for which the traitorous 
officer was sentenced to imprisonment on an island for 
life. If this be so, the officer in this case was never cap- 
tured by the Confederates. If he had been his bones 
would have long since been transformed into another 
shape of elementary substance of a cereal character, for 
those grounds are now covered with corn and wheat 
fields. 

As said frequently before, this war story is not in- 
tended as a military history, but rather as the experience 
of a private soldier in the ranks ; but at the same time this 
particular circumstance is so interesting and has such a 
direct bearing on subsequent events that I thought it 
would not be amiss to give it. Of course 'we privates did 
not know anything about all these things at the time. 
Perhaps only the very highest officers in the army were 
acquainted with the circumstances. All that we knew at 
the time was that there was every indication of a coming 
engagement of some sort, for that we were in close 
proximity to the enemy there was every sign. 

General McClellan, taking advantage of the important 
information he had so mysteriously gained, proceeded to 
make a movement that would head off General Lee. He 
started his army immediately toward South Mountain, 
which was a high, rocky hill, between Hagerstown and 
Sharpsburg. By doing this he would cut right in the 
middle of the Confederate army. And there is nothing 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


107 


in the world that is so dangerous to an army as to be 
divided by the enemy. 

To come back to our feelings and sensations on the eve 
of an expected battle! We had around our campfire 
that night some of the old veterans of the Third Wiscon- 
sin, one of the other regiments of our brigade. Naturally 
the conversation turned to the coming conflict and the 
subject of battles generally. 

After our visitor had got us pretty well alarmed over 
the horrors of a battle, and myself in particular in a state 
of nervousness bordering on hysteria, he asked: 

“By the way, boys, have you formed your clubs ?” 

We asked him what. he meant by clubs? 

“Well, you see,” replied he, “if there is a battle the 
chances are that some of you will be killed” (and how 
glibly he uttered the awful word). “In that case it is 
a good thing to have a club.” 

I wished somebody would club me. 

“The idea of a club is this,” he continued, while we 
were listening with mouths and ears wide open. “The 
plan is to divide yourselves up in clubs of three men. 
The chances are that the whole three will not be killed. 
You give each other your names and addresses of the 
relatives or friends at home whom you would ’wish to be 
notified in case anything happened. Then the fellow that 
comes out all right can send word at once in case any- 
thing happens.” 

“But don’t the officers report all these things. Don’t 
the newspaper correspondents send the list of names by 
telegraph to their papers?” I asked, with journalistic 
instinct. 

“Oh, pshaw, that don’t amount to nothing,” was the 
reply. “These fellows get all the news they can, of 
course ; but they don’t get half. In a battle everything is 
all mixed up. Men are killed and they are stripped of 
their clothes and everything in their pockets so that they 
do not leave a trace of who they are. Then fellows get 
captured by the rebs, and wounded men fall into the 
hands of the graybacks, and some are left on the battle- 
field to die alone and no one ever hears what becomes of 
them. In this case you can write to their friends that 


io8 THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

they are ‘missing.’ But as a general thing the three men 
in a club can keep track of each other, whatever happens. 
I tell you clubs are a good thing. In fact clubs are 
trumps.” 

The idea struck me like joining a suicide club, but at 
the same time it could not be doubted that it was a good 
thing. We immediately decided to form ourselves into 
a club. The club to which I attached myself consisted 
of Sergeant Heber Wells, John Butterworth and myself. 
And it is a singular fact that all three of us are alive 
to-day. There were soon decimations in many of the 
clubs, but none of our particular three had to send a letter 
breaking the news of a death in our trio. Two of us 
were, however, wounded in the battle of Chancellorsville, 
but the news of that got home quickly enough. 

I can’t say that this club business was very pleasant. 
It seemed like writing one’s own epitaph, or engraving 
one’s own name on his coffin-plate. It made me very 
nervous and downhearted. I felt sure that I was the 
one of our three whose name would be the first to be sent 
home among the list of killed. 

I didn’t sleep much that night. I could think of noth- 
ing but fighting and being shot. I wondered how it felt 
to be shot. Did it hurt much? Was the agony awful? 
I had never seen anything shot but a dog. 

A hundred times I recalled the shooting of that dog, 
how he yelped and writhed, kicked and struggled! Im- 
agine a human being writhing and struggling in that 
way ! Imagine me — me, writhing and struggling in that 
way, in mortal agony ! In fitful dreams I saw the shoot- 
ing of that dog again, and it seemed as if I were the dog, 
yelping and writhing and struggling in my death agony. 

Then I dreamed that I was at home, in bed, in my 
little front room in Fair Street, with the aquarium at 
the window and the canary bird in his painted cage. I 
dreamed that I dreamed. I dreamed that I awoke from 
a dream — a horrible dream — that I had been in the army, 
and that there was going to be a battle. I dreamed that 
I awoke from the horrible dream and found that it was a 
nightmare, and that I got out of bed and knelt beside it 
and thanked God that it was but a dream and nothing 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


109 


worse. Thank heaven, that it was but a dream ! Thank 
heaven, I had not enlisted ! Thank heaven, I was at my 
home, safe and secure, and that the only warlike sound I 
would hear in the morning would be the bell calling me 
down to a breakfast of broiled chicken and muffins. 

Sleep on, soldier! Pleasant be thy dream! For the 
morrow ye know not ! 


no 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XX. 

NEAR A BATTLE. 

It was not the breakfast bell at my home in Fair 
Street that awoke me the next morning, but that ever- 
lasting drum sounding the reveille that had become so 
painfully familiar. After the vivid dream of home related 
in the previous chapter, the awakening to a sense of my 
surroundings was a severe shock. But there was too much 
excitement around camp to spend much time in gloomy 
reveries. 

It is perhaps good for the soldier that there is such in- 
cessant activity while at the front. It occupies his time 
and takes all his mind, so that there is not much oppor- 
tunity to sit down and think. And when night comes the 
soldier is generally so fatigued that he sinks at once into 
a leaden-like slumber. It was not often that the soldier 
dreams as I had dreamed the night before. 

“I tole you fellers,” said John Ick as he was boiling his 
coffee, “we got by dot schlaughter haus today, and dond 
you forgot dot.” Then turning to Reddy Mahar, who 
seemed to be his natural enemy, he added : 

“You dond was so fresh yourselluf, Retty. You dond 
vant to fight so much alretty, eh ?” 

“Be jabbers and I wish I was home, that’s phwat I 
does,” answered Reddy very meekly. 

“No, you dond vant to fight so much as you was by 
Washington, dond it? I dond was no cowyard now, 
ain’t it?” 

“Shut up, you fellows,” said John Stansfield, thinking 
there was going to be a repetition of the racket between 
these two in Washington. But there was no danger. 
There was no fight in either of them. John Ick seemed at 
the moment to be outwardly the least concerned, but it 
was evident that it was only put on for the occasion. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


hi 


Ick apparently wanted to arouse the ire of his old adver- 
sary for the purpose of creating some sort of a diversion, 
but it was a failure. He might have kicked Mahar just 
then, and I doubt if he would have taken it up. 

It was not long before we heard fighting of some sort 
further at the front. The musket shots started in first in 
little spurts, two or three at a time. Then there would be 
a volley that sounded like a rattle — like one of those 
wooden concerns that the boys hold in their hands and 
whirl around. Then something else — more warlike than 
all ! Listen ! 

“Hark ! ’Tis the cannon’s opening roar !” 

I shall never forget the first time I heard a cannon fired 
in the army. And this was the morning. 

Boom ! 

And the hills echoed and re-echoed with the roar, like 
lowering thunder. 

Whiz — whiz — whiz — whiz — whiz — ! 

Say it as fast as you can. Start with the voice loud and 
strong. Then with each reiterated “whiz” let the voice 
fall, diminishing in force. Try it: 

Whiz — whiz — whiz — whiz — whiz — ! 

That is the sound of the rifled shell flying through the 
air. Then — 

Crash ! 

As it smashes through the trees, or splinters the rocks, 
or richochets along the ground. Then, again, another — 

Boom ! 

As the shell explodes, its fragments fly in every direc- 
tion, scattering destruction and death in its wake. 

And if you are near enough to where it struck, and 
there is any one in the way, there is another sound. 

It is the shrieking, the yelling, the cursing of those 
who have been rent asunder by those terrible fragments, 
and yet have enough life left to suffer. 

Why is it that men curse and blaspheme when wounded, 
instead of praying? 

I am describing here the first cannon shots that I ever 
heard. The part relative to the curse does not apply to 
this particular day, but to subsequent experiences. On 
the day in question we were not close enough to the front 


1 1 2 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


to hear the cries of the severely wounded, but we did hear 
the roar of the cannon and we heard lots of it. 

Once the shooting of the cannon had commenced there 
was a good deal of it. It was some distance further out 
in the front, but we could hear it plainly enough. It was 
a continual “Boom — whiz — crash !” for several hours. 

And it formed the bass and baritone for the soprano 
and tenor of the musket shots. Once or twice, far back 
as we were, we heard the peculiar singing of a rifle bullet. 
This can be best expressed in type this way : 

“Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-zip !” 

The “z-z-z” represents the course of the bullet through 
the air. The “zip” is the sound of its striking something. 

Imagine a mosquito buzzing around, and then the slap 
on the cheek that puts him (and you) out of misery, and 
you will have a fair idea, on a small scale, of the sound of 
a minnie rifle bullet. 

That all this shooting further out in the front was no 
Fourth of July nonsense soon began to be evident, for the 
wounded soldiers began to stream in. 

It was our first sight of the real horrors of battle. 

We were too close to the front for any of the wounded 
to be attended to by the surgeons without passing through 
us to the improvised field hospitals, designated by small 
yellow flags on staves stuck in the ground, to the rear of 
us. Thus it was that we saw the wounded, not with their 
injuries concealed by neat white bandages, but in all their 
grewsome nakedness. 

Of course these were the men who were “slightly” 
wounded — those who were able to walk. A wonderful 
number were shot in the arm and hand. There were 
lacerated fingers and thumbs; useless arms, held up by 
the others unhurt ; men with the tips of their noses shot 
off ; soldiers with the fragment of an ear hanging down 
alongside of their necks ; men painfully limping from the 
effects of shots in the leg or foot; officers and privates 
with blood streaming over their faces from scalp wounds 
— the most terrible of all to look at, but in reality the least 
dangerous. All these hurried to the doctors in the rear. 

What struck me was the utter nonchalance of the 
Wounded, Of those able to walk, no matter how desper- 



Pretty soon the more severely wounded began to come through on 

stretchers. 


Page 113 





THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


113 

ately hurt they seemed to be, no matter how bloody they 
were, none uttered a cry or a complaint. On the contrary 
they seemed to be remarkably cheerful and chipper. Had 
those men been similarly injured in civil life they would 
have indulged in vehement demonstrations of agony. 

But when a man is woundecl in the army it seems as if 
his system, both mental and physical, were nerved up to it. 
And furthermore there is a feeling of inexpressible ex- 
ultation over the fact that one has escaped something 
worse, and the victim is also braced up with the knowl- - 
edge that for awhile at least he will have no fighting to 
do, and that there is a good prospect of his getting a fur- 
lough to go home and see his family. 

I did not appreciate all this at the moment and so wa$ 
struck with the apparent unconcern of those who had been 
wounded. When I was wounded myself on a subsequent 
occasion, I learned to understand these things. 

And furthermore, when a man is shot, if it be not in a 
vital spot, the immediate pain is not severe. The real 
agony comes later, when inflammation begins to set in* 
and the entire system is involved with the fever that in- 
variably follows gunshot wounds sooner or later. If you 
want to know how it feels to be shot through the leg, for 
instance, let some one throw a stone from across the 
street so that it will strike you. There will be a sharp 
sting, followed by a sort of numbness. That is almost 
exactly the sensation of being shot through a muscular 
part of the body. 

But afterward — when the fever begins ! Then there 
are long and tedious days and nights of intolerable agony. 

Pretty soon the more severely wounded began to come 
through on stretchers, carried on blankets with the sound 
men holding each comer ; or being lifted by the legs and 
arms in the most primitive way. 

We were lying near the town of Boonesborough. Here 
the wounded were taken. The churches, schoolhouses and 
even residences taken possession of as hospitals became at 
once the scenes of surgical butchery. I use this word in 
no offensive sense. 

And yet, one week previous, the people of Boones- 
borough had no more idea that they would be in the im- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


114 

mediate theater of actual war than had the people of the 
quietest town in the country. Imagine the feelings of the 
women and children on seeing their homes suddenly filled 
with mutilated and bleeding soldiers, spread in rows along 
the floor of the parlor and dining room! And yet one 
week — in fact two days — before, there were no more signs 
of such a thing happening in that particular town than 
there is to-day, I might almost say. 

What were my feelings all this time? I can hardly 
describe them. We lay there momentarily expecting to 
be ordered into the thick of the fray ourselves! We did 
not know at what minute our turn would come, or how 
soon some of us might swell the number of mutilated 
human beings going back to the surgeon’s knife. As for 
myself I remember that I was in a state bordering on a 
panic. I was almost out of my head. In fact I was men- 
tally and physically almost paralyzed. I moved about in 
a misty, hazy sort of a way, hardly knowing where I was 
or what I was doing. 

There was not much talk among the boys that day. 
The same listless, despairing spirit seemed to pervade all. 

What was going on? We didn’t know. What battle 
was it? We didn’t know. All that we knew was that 
there was a scene of carnage being enacted somewhere 
out there a little further in front, where human beings 
were being torn to pieces. And all that we thought of 
was that our turn to take part in the awful scene would 
soon come. 

“What do you think of it ?” I asked Davy Harris as he 
threw himself on the grass beside me. 

Harris was very pale. He replied : 

“I think ” 

The sentence was not completed. It was interrupted 
by the order : 

“Fall in, Thirteenth !” 

Davy Harris and I exchanged nervous glances. 

“Our turn has come, Joe,” said he quietly. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“5 


CHAPTER XXI. 

SOME AWFUL FIGURES. 

Of course we thought surely that our turn had come 
and that we were about to be precipitated into a battle. 
Does the reader wonder that we were demoralized? Con- 
sider the situation. 

We had barely entered the service. As a matter of fact 
it was only two weeks since we had left the mustering 
camp at Newark. The most of us had never fired a gun 
in our lives with the exception of the single volley over 
the canal at Camp Frelinghuysen in the battalion drill. 
We had had no experience, but little drilling, and were 
practically as ignorant of military movements as we were 
on the day we enlisted. 

We had entered the army with the idea of course that 
we would some day in the future be precipitated into an 
engagement, but we did not imagine that we would be 
thus summarily hustled from our homes to the battlefield 
without being hardened and prepared for it by degrees, as 
it were. In the whole course of the war I do not believe 
there ever was a regiment so suddenly engaged in a battle 
after entering the service as the Thirteenth New Jersey. 

It so happened that we did not get into a fight that day, 
nor for a couple of days later, but the same remark holds 
good about the remarkably short time that existed be- 
tween the time of our enlistment and our experience in 
actual warfare, in one of the most sanguinary of conflicts. 

I believe that if we had really been ordered into a fight 
that day I would have fainted from terror and nervous 
weakness. But fortunately, at least for me, we didn’t 
get into that battle. It was only one of those mysterious 
movements that were so frequent — a change of position 
There may have been some reason for these constant 
changes, and again there may not have been. I still incline 
to the latter idea. But nevertheless, it did seem as if we 


n6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


were forever changing our position and moving from 
this spot to that without any sense or reason whatever. 
That was all it amounted to on this occasion. 

And to our intense satisfaction and relief there was a 
sudden cessation of the firing in the front. Whatever had 
been going on, it had evidently come to a settlement some 
way. 

What we had heard, as we learned later, was the en- 
gagement that has gone into history as the battle of South 
Mountain. It wasn’t a long engagement, but it was an 
important one, and had it been properly followed up and 
had the other departments of the army properly co- 
operated, the result would have been of inestimable value 
to the Northern army. 

General McClellan had captured the South Mountain 
passes at the engagement at Turner’s Gap, although not 
without considerable loss. The Confederate loss in this 
engagement at South Mountain has been put down at 
about 3,000, including some prisoners. The loss on both 
sides in the shape of killed, wounded and prisoners, was 
perhaps 5,000. This is not much of a battle compared 
with some of the fights during the war, but it was a con- 
siderable one just the same, even in these days, as will be 
seen by comparing the number with that of some of the 
recent engagements between the Japs and Chinese, with 
all the former’s advantage of improved weapons and am- 
munition. 

And by the way, is the reader of this a sufficient stu- 
dent of history to notice the fact that as civilization 
progresses and the means of killing people are facilitated, 
the losses in battle continually decrease? The accepted 
theory is that eventually the instruments of wholesale 
slaughter and death will be so perfected that a fight be- 
tween two armies will mean nothing less than total anni- 
hilation of one or the other ; that this will reach such a 
stage that war will cease to be possible, and that the dif- 
ferences of the future will be settled by arbitration instead 
of by recourse to arms. But the facts do not bear this out. 
History tells us that they had a good deal more extensive 
list of fatalities in olden times than at present, which, if 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ii7 

the records are correct, suggest some strange compari- 
r sons. 

Modern warfare has been aptly described as an im- 
proved and scientific way of throwing stones. In olden 
times a battle was mo*e in the nature of a hand-to-hand 
conflict, and the number of killed and wounded was un- 
doubtedly larger. 

At the battle of Cressy the arms of the English Prince 
of Wales were won by Edward, the Black Prince. 
Among the killed on the side of the French was the King 
of Bohemia, whose crest was three ostrich feathers and 
the motto Tch Dien’ (I serve). At the conclusion of the 
battle the crest and the motto were adopted by the Black 
Prince, and have ever since been worn by the Prince of 
Wales. I interpolate this simply as an interesting fact. 
What I wanted to say was that at that battle the French 
went into the fight with nearly 100,000 men and at the 
close of the day the French king fled with five knights 
and sixty soldiers. Over 40,000 men had been killed or 
wounded and the rest of the army had scattered in every 
direction. 

At the battle of Borodino there were 250,000 men en- 
gaged, and in one day 78,000, or 31 per cent., had been 
killed and wounded. Every woman in France wore 
mourning after that battle. In the Roman army of 146,- 
000 men, the loss was 52,000, or 34 per cent., at the battle 
of Cannae. All the prisoners were massacred, and Hanni- 
bal, the victor, sent to Carthage five bushels of gold rings 
taken from the fingers of the enemy’s knights that were 
killed. 

Ah the Battle of a Week, in 732 a. d., in which Martel 
overthrew the Saracens, there were 550,000 men engaged, 
of whom 375,000 were killed on the field. This was the 
bloodiest battle of history, and yet the arms at the time 
must have been of an extremely primitive character. 
Among the 149,000 who participated at Waterloo the 
loss was 51,000. In the Battle of Nations at Leipsig, in 
1813, there were 320,000 men engaged, and the loss was 
111,000. Of the 320,000 engaged at Gravelotte, the killed 
and wounded numbered 48,000. At Marengo, in which 
58,000 were engaged, the loss was 13,000. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


118 

To afford a comparison with our late war, I will cite 
the battle of Gettysburg as an example. In this engage- 
ment there were 140,000 men opposed to each other. The 
loss in killed, wounded and missing during the three 
days’ fighting at Gettysburg, was — Federal, 28,898 ; Con- 
federate, 37,000 ; total, 65,898. That is between 25 and 30 
per cent. But this was not only the largest battle of the 
war, but the loss was proportionately the greatest. The 
average loss in battle, according to statistical historians 
who have made a study of “our late unpleasantness,” was 
not over 10 or 12 per cent. 

And yet, during the late war, compared with the armies 
of old times, the troops were equipped with modern and 
improved arms, and naturally it might be supposed that, 
the mortality would be all the greater. 

The records of losses during the last war (between the 
United States and Spain) are not complete, so that they 
may be only roughly stated, viz. : Americans killed at and 
around Santiago, from 260 to 270; wounded, about 1,600. 
Killed in naval encounters at Bahio Honda and other 
points on the north coast of Cuba, 5 or 6. Killed at Porto 
Rico, 5 or 6 ; wounded 60 or 70. Killed in the capture of 
Manila and attendant skirmishes, 40 or 50; wounded, 
about 200. In addition to these, several thousand Amer- 
ican soldiers and sailors died of disease in camp, the esti- 
mated number being, according to latest reports, about 
2,600. A rough aggregate would make the total American 
loss in the war (including the destruction of the Maine), 
about 3,236 killed (and died), and about 5,356 wounded. 
These are believed to be the outside figures. Official and 
complete reports would probably show a slight diminu- 
tion. 

The Spanish losses may only be estimated, as follows : 
At Santiago, killed, 2,000 ; wounded, 6,000. Killed in the 
destruction of Cervera’s fleet, 600 to 700; wounded, 400. 
How many were lost by the Spanish in the other engage- 
ments will probably never be known, for no figures have 
ever been given out of Spain’s loss in the memorable de- 
struction of Montojo’s fleet by the matchless Admiral 
Dewey on May 1, 1898. 

The last battles between the United States forces and 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


119 

the Filipino insurgents under Aguinaldo in the Philip- 
pine Islands are too recent and the information too in- 
definite to present very reliable figures. In the battle at 
Manila in February, 1899, the American losses are be- 
lieved to have been ^bout 40 or 50 killed and perhaps 250 
wounded. The Filipino losses are estimated at from 1,500 
to 2,000 killed and about 3,000 wounded. This was really 
a large battle, for there were no less than 32,000 men en- 
gaged — 13,000 Americans and 20,000 Filipinos. 

The total strength of the American army in the Spanish 
war was 274,717. The war began on Thursday, April 21, 
1898, at 7 a.m. The peace protocol was signed at Wash- 
ington, D. C., on Friday, August 12, 1898, at 4:23 p.m. 
The treaty of peace was signed by the joint American and 
Spanish commission in Paris on December 10, 1898. The 
treaty was ratified by the United States Senate on Mon- 
day, February 6, 1899, at 3:25 p.m. 

A comparison of the number of men enlisted in the war 
with Spain and in previous wars by the United States 
may in this connection be interesting. In the Revolu- 
tionary war the number did not exceed 250,000. In the 
civil war there were 2,326,168 Federal troops, of whom 
1 78,975 were colored and 67,000 regulars. In the war of 
1812 there were 471,622, of whom 62,674 were regulars. 
In the Mexican war there were 116,321, of whom 42,545 
were regulars. In the war with Spain our troops num- 
bered 219,035 volunteers (of whom 10,189 were colored), 
and 55,682 were regulars, a total of 274,717. (See ap- 
pendix.) 

I interpolate these statistics here as being interesting 
and appropriate, inasmuch as they give the reader an 
idea of the size and extent of the battle of South Moun- 
tain. To the private soldier a battle is a battle, and it prac- 
tically makes little difference to him, as an individual, 
whether the loss is 1,000 or 100,000. The effect on the 
army or the country, however, is more or less important, 
according to the numerical and strategical results. 

The battle of South Mountain, although not a large 
one, as battles go, was nevertheless an important one, for 
it gave General McClellan the opportunity he desired of 


120 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


cutting the rebel army in two and relieving the Federal 
garrison at Harper’s Ferry. 

But the disgraceful and utterly inexcusable surrender 
of Harper’s Ferry defeated this purpose. Colonel Miles 
had 12,000 men, 73 pieces of artillery, and an immense 
quantity of military stores and supplies, and he should 
have defended such an important place to the last man. 
But he surrendered. He saw the signs of the big rebel 
army, and capitulated without terms or conditions. 

The cowardly act, however, met with instant retribu- 
tion. While Colonel Miles was in the very act of hoisting 
a white flag in token of surrender, he was struck by a 
cannon ball and instantly killed. There is an old adage 
that it is not well to speak ill of the dead. But it was a 
fortunate thing for Colonel Miles that he was killed as 
he was, for it blunted the rough edge of popular indigna- 
tion that was expressed at his conduct. In those exciting 
days there was little sympathy for a commanding officer 
who had the reputation of being a coward. Had Colonel 
Miles lived long enough to have heard the criticism over 
his surrender of Harper’s Ferry he would probably have 
committed suicide. 

Now that Harper’s Ferry had been lost General Mc- 
Clellan changed his plans and directed his entire attention 
to the main army of General Lee, and then commenced 
the movements that a day or so later precipitated us into 
one of the great conflicts of the war — the battle of 
Antietam. 

In that bloody battle the Thirteenth New Jersey regi- 
ment received its “baptism of fire.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


121 


(Chapter xxii. 

EVE OF BATTLE. 

After the battle of South Mountain, General Lee, who 
saw that General McClellan meant business, found what 
military men would call “a strong position” on the west 
side of Antietam creek, and proceeded to get his army in 
readiness to meet the pursuing Union army. In telling 
this, of course, I am writing in the light of subsequent 
knowledge. Of course at the time we knew nothing more 
of what was going on, or what was coming, or indeed 
what had passed, than so many sheep in a drove. 

But at the same time we felt, rather than positively 
knew, that the army was getting into position for a great 
conflict. There was a hurrying and scurrying of mounted 
officers and messengers, an anxious look on the faces of 
the higher officers over us that we frequently met or 
passed, and an air of general importance and preparation, 
not manifest on other occasions, that gave the soldier a 
knowledge that a battle was imminent. It was evident 
even to us raw recruits, who had scarcely been a fortnight 
away from our homes. Much more were these move- 
ments and preparations understood by the older and more 
experienced soldiers. 

We all knew, therefore, that we were about to be 
plunged into a battle, and as practically the whole of the 
Federal and Confederate armies of Virginia were pitted 
against each other, it would be a battle royal and a ter- 
rible conflict. 

And, by the way, speaking of Company K and the other 
company from Paterson and vicinity, Company C, we had 
hardly yet become acquainted with each other. We had 
enlisted in haste, had been hurried off to the front so 
quickly, and had been kept on such constant movement, 
that there had been no chance to become acquainted out- 


122 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


side of our own immediate coteries, so to speak. We 
were simply a big crowd of comparative strangers. 

Soldiers in the army always divide themselves into 
couples. Every man has his partner (usually called 
“pard”), and they were to each other almost man and 
wife. I will not go into this right here, for my present 
partner was one with whom I only had a comparatively 
short connection, and the ordinary relations between 
“pards” did not prevail. My partner, or bed-mate, just 
then was Heber Wells, the orderly sergeant of the com- 
pany. I could not call him a tent mate, for we had no 
tents at this time, having left our Sibleys at Rockville, 
and the “shelter” or “pup tents” had not yet been given 
out to us. In another stage of the story I will have 
something to say about the man who was essentially “my 
partner,” John Butterworth, with whom I was thrown in 
accidentally, as it were, but whom I found to be one of 
the best of fellows and a “partner” in more senses than 
one. 

Heber Wells was the orderly sergeant. He was the 
busiest man in the company. He had to call the rolls, 
attend to all the company reports, and in other respects 
do the work of the commissioned officers, so that he was 
kept at it all the while and did not have opportunity to 
spend much time with the gatherings and groups of the 
privates. He was always a gentleman, always a good 
friend, always a brave man, and always carried himself 
with a dignity that was inborn. 

Then there was John Stansfield, always full of fun, but 
at the same time dignified. Two other characters were 
also already familiar to the whole company — “Slaughter 
House Ike” and “Reddy Mahar,” the former particularly, 
not only on account of his perennial wit, but because of 
his everlasting penchant to get into trouble. 

I might also mention my old printer associates, David 
Harris, Liv. Allen and Curt Brown, and such men as Abe 
Ackerman, James J. Vanderbeck, James W. Post, John J. 
Carlough, Daniel S. Wanamaker, Samuel Dougherty, 
John Anderson, Jacob Berdan, Henry Clark, John Far- 
low, Alexander Kidd, Archibald McCall, George Mickle, 
Henry Speer, Thomas Vanderbeck, Charles Noble, Will- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


123 


iam Lambert, and others who were acquaintances by this 
time, and the most of whom are living to-day. There 
were plenty of others in the company with whom I be- 
came acquainted afterward, but the above about com- 
prised the limit of* personal acquaintances at the time 
mentioned, and I particularly remember them as we were 
approaching the place where we were to engage in our 
first real fighting. 

John Ick had the “slaughter house” fever bad just then. 
He broke out every five minutes with some remark about 
the “shambles” and every wounded man that came along 
was the signal for a fresh outbreak. But there was no 
reprimand or fun cast at John Ick at this time, for we all 
felt the same way, and to a great extent he expressed our 
sentiments. 

In speaking for myself in saying that I was in a per- 
petual state of nervous fright, I think I can speak for the 
rest. Once when a lad, I had come near drowning. I 
was under the water long enough to remember everything 
that I had ever done in my life. I remember to this day 
how the bad things stood out in the boldest relief. Things 
that I then considered very wicked perhaps would not 
trouble my conscience so much nowadays, but the smallest 
offense seemed a great sin then and it was pictured before 
me like a panorama. 

•So it was now. I felt as sure that I was going to be 
killed as I did when I was under the water when a lad. I 
thought over my comparatively short life and everything 
that I had done. I wished that I had not done some 
things. I wished that I had lived a better life, that I was 
a member of the church and in other respects better. In 
fact, I thought I was going to die, and I was afraid, not 
so much of the simple dying, as of the mysterious here- 
after. In fact, I felt afraid to die, and I am sure that I 
mentally made up my mind that if I got through with 
this all right, I would lead a better life. 

But alas, that is the rule always. 

“When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be. 

When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he.” 

In other words, I am afraid that after the big battle 


124 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


that came and passed, I was wickeder than ever. Such is 
life. 

I remember plainly what Henry Spear said to me. 

“It is all right for you young fellows, who have no one 
to depend upon you. But just think of me and the others 
who have wives and families.” 

“That’s all right,” said I, “but don’t you suppose we 
young fellows like to live as well as you older ones ?” 

“Perhaps ; but you have no one depending on you and 
that makes all the difference. I don’t think of myself at 
all, but of my wife and children.” 

“That’s true,” said Heber Wells, who had heard the 
conversation ; “if you had a family depending on you you 
would feel different.” 

“And are you not afraid for your own self?” I asked. 

“Of course I do not want to be killed,” answered Henry 
Spear ; “but that is nothing compared with the thought of 
family.” 

I was young then. I had my doubts about it. True I 
had no family depending on me, but I had bright pros- 
pects and — well, I had the picture of a pretty girl in my 
pocket who perhaps might grieve, and perhaps might not. 
On the whole I didn’t think she would — much. But I 
was scared for myself, and I honestly believe the others 
were too. I did not have any family excuse to cover up 
my fear. And yet, seriously, in the light of later experi- 
ence, I can appreciate the fact that this must have added 
materially to the mental sufferings of the men, who im- 
agined they were going to their death. 

All this time we were marching and countermarching, 
going hither and thither, as if the commanding officers 
were not quite satisfied where they did want us to stand. 
Late in the afternoon on September 15, 1862, the advance 
troops of our army reached the front of the enemy and 
preparations were at once made for the big battle that was 
expected to begin the following morning. 

That was not a pleasant night. We were in a state of 
nervous expectancy, and as we sat around the camp fires 
we discussed the awful possibilities of the morrow. The 
little “club” to which I belonged gave each other the di- 
rections as to what to do in case anything happened to any 



We were in a state of nervous expectancy. 


Page 124 






THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


125 


one of the three. We carefully went over the addresses 
of each other’s relatives at home, and mutually agreed to 
stand by each other in case any of us were wounded. In 
fact, we made arrangements that impressed me as being 
very much like the preparations for a funeral. Which of 
us would be the corpse? The comrade from the Third 
Wisconsin who had suggested the idea had told us that 
there was no likelihood of all three being killed. One 
might. Perhaps two might. But the chances were that 
at least one of the three would escape. Who would it 
be? I hoped that I would be the one, but I had my 
doubts about it. 

Was this cowardice? Was I a coward? Perhaps I 
was. But I really believe that if I was a coward for feel- 
ing this way, then ninety-nine hundredths of the army 
were cowards. It is not natural that any man, or any ani- 
mal for that matter, should not be nervous and appre- 
hensive in the face of impending death. If this feeling 
was cowardice, then truly I was a coward. I guess I 
was never cut out for a soldier, at least the kind that have 
to fight. I wished that I had joined the “home guards.” 

When the reveille sounded the next morning we all 
arose and looked at each other in a strange way. We did 
not talk much, but the glance that each man gave the other 
was a silent inquiry or interchange of feeling. Nearly 
every man was pale, and everybody’s eyes bore the appear- 
ance of having passed a wakeful night. In a listless way 
we prepared and tried to eat a little breakfast, but there 
was no taste to it, and we had no appetite. And when 
the order to “fall in” came, we got into the ranks in a slow, 
despairing sort of way, as if we had given up all hope — 
the sort of way that a condemned prisoner pulls himself 
together to walk to the scaffold. 

Let a man of that regiment say, if he truthfully can, 
that he felt differently from the way I have tried to de- 
scribe. 

But we did not get into the battle that day. They say 
that “hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” I cannot say 
that the delay in this made any of our hearts very ill. But 
at the same time it was a painful wait withal. When a 
man has an aching tooth to be pulled he wants. to have it 


126 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


hurried through and be done with, and the same sentiment 
prevailed now. We thought that we would rather be 
plunged into the unknown horror of the battle and be 
done with it than have to much longer suffer this terrible 
suspense. 

I am only endeavoring to describe the feelings of a pri- 
vate soldier on the eve of his first battle. The description 
is tame and unsatisfactory at the best. I feel that I have 
greatly underestimated the sensations. 

We moved that day with Mansfield’s corps, to which we 
were attached, to the neighborhood of Keedysville, where 
we remained all day. The preparations for the battle 
were seen all around us. The troops were getting in line 
for the conflict, and even to our inexperienced eyes the 
reasons for the movements were understood. The artil- 
lery was being placed on the hills, the guns unlimbered 
and turned toward the direction where the rebels were 
supposed to be. The cavalry were galloping hither and 
thither to the front. Mounted orderlies dashed up to the 
corps headquarters with written orders to the generals. 
When night came we could even hear distant drums and 
bugles, which were said to be those of the enemy. We 
were getting into close quarters and no mistake. 

Late in the night we received orders to move. The 
orders were ominous. Instructions were passed around 
in a whisper, to move as quietly as possible. There must 
be no loud talking. Our tin cans and coffee pots were, 
to be muffled in some way so that they would not rattle. 
Under no circumstances must any man light his pipe or 
strike a match for any purpose whatever, for it was a 
quiet maneuver in the dark, to be made without letting 
the enemy know what was going on. 

That was enough. Company K wasn’t going to let 
the enemy know where it was, not if she knew herself, 
and we were as still as mice as we marched here and 
there in the dark, stumbling over almost everything in 
the way. We went over fences, through woods, up hill 
and down, past quiet farmhouses, and crossed a good- 
sized stream on an old bridge. We learned afterward that 
it was Antietam creek, made famous the next day by the 
bloody battle that took place along its banks. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


127 


Finally we were halted in a position on the extreme 
right of the line, and threw ourselves on the ground for 
a much-needed rest. It was at that weird hour in the 
morning just before dawn, when it is the darkest. 

Scarcely had we l£id ourselves on the ground than there 
was some very sharp shooting in front of us. 

The battle of Antietam had begun! 


128 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

ANTIETAM. 

It was the memorable day of September 17, 1862. 

As stated in the previous chapter, it was an hour or so 
before the first signs of daylight, and we had just thrown 
ourselves on the ground for a short rest after a tedious 
and fatiguing night’s march. Then the shodting began 
a little distance in front of us. 

Hooker’s corps had been assigned the position on the 
right of the Union army in the hope of turning the 
enemy’s left. Our corps was to support Hooker’s. The 
skirmishers on our right had encountered those of the 
rebels on their left. They exchanged shots, and that was 
the firing we had heard. 

It seems — and this was learned afterward, of course — 
that Stonewall Jackson’s force had made a rapid march 
from Harper’s Ferry and joined Lee during the day. Lee 
was one of the most able generals and astute strategists 
that the world ever knew. He seemed to possess a won- 
derful facility for learning the enemy’s movements and as 
if by intuition knew what they were intended for. Thus 
by bringing his own troops into the proper position he 
frequently frustrated the best-laid plans of the Northern 
generals. In this way on this occasion he had strength- 
ened the weakest point of the Confederate’s right, where 
General McClellan had intended to make his most savage 
attack. 

Although but two weeks away from home, as it were, 
we had become quite used to the sound of musketry, but 
never before did the shooting seem to have the same sig- 
nificance that it did now. We knew that we were in for it. 
We waited for daylight as the condemned murderer waits 
for the sun to rise on his last day, for there was not one 
of us that did not regard it as his last day. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


129 


“We was by dot schlaughter haus now, sure, alretty,” 
said John Ick, in the darkness. 

“Sh-h !” said Sergeant Wells. And it was the only an- 
swer to Ick’s lugubrious remark, for we all felt that there 
was too much truth'in it. Even Reddy Mahar, Ick’s per- 
ennial enemy, said not a word, but hugged the ground all 
the closer. 

The minutes rolled on. Did ever time pass so slowly? 
Everybody was silent. Everybody was thinking — think- 
ing — thinking ! The sun would arise ! Would we ever see 
it $et ? Alas, some of us did not ! 

The long-delayed daylight finally arrived. The first 
gray streaks of dawn disclosed to our eyes a vast army, 
lj/ing in battle array, all ready for the fight, it seemed. 

The first thing done was to serve us all with a ration 
of fresh beef. This was the universal custom before a 
battle. Why was it? Was it to make us more savage, like 
"so many animals? At all events it seemed to be the gen- 
eral rule. More than once I have seen an army marching 
into battle with a chunk of half-roasted fresh beef in 
every man’s hand. There used to be a tradition that the 
Confederates gave their men a ration of whisky and gun- 
powder before a fight to make them savage. I don’t know 
whether there was any truth in this or not. 

We lighted fires. There was no use for secrecy now, 
for each army knew the proximity of the other. We stuck 
our fresh beef on the ends of sticks, held them in the 
flames of the camp fires and roasted, or rather toasted 
them, as best we could. But before the meat was scarcely 
smoked we were ordered to change our position. 

The Thirteenth was formed in “close column,” which 
is a usual way to prepare for a battle. We had never 
been drilled in any such movement, and to get us in the 
right position it was almost necessary for the officers to 
lead each man by the shoulders and put him where he 
ought to be. And to tell the truth, most of the officers 
knew about as little of these movements as the men. 

When we were in the right shape we were told that we 
might again light the fires and cook our meat for break- 
fast. But that breakfast was never cooked. We had 
scarcely got the fires started than the firing in the front 


130 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


began again more vigorously than we had ever heard it 
before. We were ordered to “fall in.” 

Some of the men ate their beef raw. I was not used 
to that yet, and thrust my ration into my haversack. I 
didn’t have much of an appetite anyhow ! 

Then the firing of the rifles in the front became more 
continuous. That was followed by the artillery. First 
there was a single shot, as if it were a signal. Then 
there was an answering roar from a far-off hill. The 
Union artillery responded, and the rebels answered back. 
The shooting of big guns extended all along the line, and 
the scarce risen sun was greeted with a continuous salvo 
that sounded like ten thousand anvil choruses. 

The “boom — whiz — crash — boom” described in a pre- 
vious chapter, was repeated and repeated a hundred, a 
thousand, yes, thousands of times, till the skies crashed 
like a thousand severe summer thunder-storms. It was 
simply awful! The noise was ear-splitting, and the effect* 
on the nerves was terrible. I really believe that if it were 
not for the infernal noise of the artillery in a battle it 
would not seem half so bad. 

We were temporarily halted along a piece of woods ; I 
believe that this woods has gone into history as “The 
East Woods.” Then every man was startled by the most 
unearthly yelling. 

None had ever before heard such demoniacal shrieks. 
They sounded as if they came from a lost soul in the 
nethermost depths of purgatory. We were all startled. It 
made our blood run cold. 

“What in the world is that man making such a noise 
for?” asked Sergeant Wells. 

“Damfino,” replied Hank Van Orden, “let’s go and 
see.” 

Don’t let the reader think that Hank meant to be pro- 
fane, right there in the face of death. He was so used to 
that expression that he would have said the same thing 
if spoken to by the Angel Gabriel. No one ever regarded 
it as profanity, and even Wells did not notice it then. 

So we went over the edge of the woods from whence 
the unearthly shrieks were coming. Wells made an ex- 
clamation of horror. There was no more cool and self- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


131 

possessed man in the army than Heber Wells, but the 
sight that he saw was enough to turn the stomach of the 
most hardened veterans. 

There lay a wounded soldier. He was a member of the 
One Hundred and Seventh New York, one of the regi- 
ments of our brigade, and whose face was instantly rec- 
ognized. He had been struck by the fragments of a 
bursted shell, and both of his legs were torn off near the 
knees. The feet and ankles were gone entirely, but 
there protruded from the lacerated flesh the ends of the 
bones of the legs in a most horrible manner, making a 
sight that was simply sickening. Nearly every man of 
Company K went over to take a look at the wounded man 
and immediately turned away with a pallid face. 

There were plenty of wounded men now passing 
through to the rear, but their injuries were comparatively 
insignificant. This was the first time that any of us had 
seen a man mortally wounded and in the act of dying. I 
think that did more to upset and demoralize the men just 
at that moment than anything else in the world, and the 
fact that he was one of our own men, so to speak, and 
that the same fate was likely to overcome any one of us 
at any moment, made an impression that was terrible. 

Heber Wells saw that the man was beyond hope and 
that all that could be done for him would be to possibly 
relieve his sufferings. 

“What do you want, man? ,, asked Heber, sympathet- 
ically. 

“Water, water, water !” moaned the wounded man. 

Wells reached for his canteen and handed it to the 
dying man. 

“No, no,” he said, in a weak voice, as Heber held it 
to his lips. “No, not — drink. Pour — head ” 

The man’s head was bursting with the fever of the ter- 
rible anguish he was suffering. 

“Thank — thank — better — ” painfully gasped the poor 
wretch, as he felt the cooling draught trickle down his 
forehead. 

An order to “fall in” ended this painful scene. The 
wounded man must have died a few minutes later, for he 
was going fast when we left him. He is probably in one 


132 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of the graves in the Sharpsburg National Cemetery marked 
“unknown.” But the dreadful sight had made an un- 
pleasant impression upon us, for nothing that we had yet 
seen had so greatly unnerved us. I don’t think any mem- 
ber of the company ever forgot that sight. 

We were ordered to take a slightly changed position, to 
support Hexhamer’s battery, which was banging away 
for dear life. As fast as the men could load the cannon 
they were sending shot and shell toward a rebel battery 
on an opposite hill, and the latter were sending back their 
shells, which were striking around us in the most reckless 
manner. The execution done by the enemy just then, to 
our intense relief, did not amount to much, for most 
of the shells went over us, and exploded somewhere fur- 
ther in the rear. When I saw the artillerymen at work 
then, I began to wish that I had enlisted in that branch 
of the service, for it certainly looked a good deal safer 
than the infantry or cavalry. 

My subsequent experience corroborated this. Let me 
advise the reader if there is another war to enlist in the 
artillery. When an artilleryman is wounded, he is gen- 
erally torn to pieces ; but taken as a whole the chances of 
his getting out of a fight alive are a good deal better than 
in most of the other branches of the service, and it is bet- 
ter in other respects. 

Suddenly we were ordered to lie down flat, with space 
between each file sufficient for some one to pass through. 
This strange order was soon understood, for a moment 
later, the Sixty-ninth New York, one of the bravest fight- 
ing regiments of the war, came running through us in 
the double quick. 

They had been ordered to charge one of the rebel bat- 
teries. They went down the hill on the run with their 
guns on their shoulders, or hanging in their arms, and 
when they began to ascend the other side of the valley, 
they brought their muskets to a “charge bayonet !” 

A gallant charge they made, but they were repulsed. 
They were ordered back to their former position. Al- 
though a number of them had been killed, although there 
were some still in the ranks with blood streaming from 
their wounds, they came back through the Thirteenth 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i33 


with as much regularity as if they had been in a drill, and 
with a discipline that excited our admiration. It was this 
sort of conduct that made the Sixty-ninth New York one 
of the most famous regiments in the war, and no his- 
torian could ever praise that regiment too much. 

“How do you feel, Heber?” asked Captain Irish of 
Heber Wells.. 

“Hungry, just now,” was Heber’s cool response. 

“I don’t mean that. You know what I mean, Heber,” 
said the captain. 

“Well, to tell the truth,” was Wells' reply, “I would 
much rather be at home.” 

“Do you know,” said Captain Irish, “I feel as if I 
would never come out of this alive.” 

“Oh, nonsense,” said Wells, “you will come out all 
right.” 

“No,” reiterated the captain gloomily; “I will never 
come out alive.” 

Do men have presentiments of death ? Inside of thirty 
minutes Captain Irish was a corpse ! 


134 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CAPTAIN IRISH KILLED. 

Now comes the Thirteenth’s “baptism of fire.” And a 
bloody one it was ! 

We were ordered forward ! 

Over eight hundred strong, in battle front, we pro- 
ceeded. The officers ordered us to “dress to the right,” 
but it was a straggling line. 

The “z — z — z — ip” of the bullets could be heard 
whistling past us. And a moment later the first man of 
Company K fell. It was Fred King. He was mortally 
wounded, and died in the hospital about two weeks later. 
The feeling at seeing one of our own men fall out this 
way was indescribable. I shall not attempt to do it. But 
no matter who fell we must obey orders. And the pitiless, 
relentless order was “Forward !” 

The cannon balls and shells struck around us, tearing 
up the earth, and sometimes ricochetting or bouncing 
along the ground a great distance, like a flat stone skims 
across the water of a pond. 

Wounded men lay everywhere. Some were writhing 
and kicking. Others lay still. Some of the human forms 
were already quiet in death. The number of dead horses 
was enromous. They seemed to lie everywhere. But it 
was still “Forward !” 

We climbed over a rail fence. It was a road, the old 
road that yet runs from Hagerstown to Sharpsburg. 
(The New Jersey monument now stands near this spot. 
See appendix.) We did not take the road, however, for 
the order was still “Forward !” 

We climbed over the fence on the other side of the 
road. We marched some fifteen or twenty feet into what 
was then a meadow. 

We could not see any of the enemy, although their 



ANTIETAM. 

“To the memory of the brave men of the Ninth New York Infantry 
(Hawkins’ Zouaves) who fought upon this field, and especially 
to those who died here that their country might live.” 




































































































* 



































* 


> 


































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i35 


bullets were whistling past our heads. The rebels seemed 
to be in a woods on the other side of the meadow. 

Suddenly something occurred that seemed almost 
supernatural. A vast number of the enemy appeared to 
rise straight out of the solid earth, and they poured into 
us a deadly volley of leaden hail. 

It is not believed that there is another geological forma- 
tion like that particular spot on the face of the earth. 
Great military men from all over the world have since 
inspected it, and said that it seemed as if nature, in a 
savage mood, had made those natural breastworks, simply 
for the purpose for which they were used on that particu- 
lar day. 

Let me describe that field if I can. On one side, as 
before said, was a road, flanked by a post and rail fence. 
On the other side was a little valley, at the bottom of 
which was a small brook, and beyond this, a woods. 
About two-thirds of the distance to one side of the field, 
nearest the woods, there is a sudden drop in the surface 
of the ground, making a step of about four or five feet in 
height. The perpendicular side of this step is of ledgy 
rock. On the upper level, and on the lower level, it is till- 
able ground. It is as if one-third of the field had simply 
dropped its level about five feet. 

Standing over by the fence the whole field looks flat, 
without a break in it. No one would ever think there was 
such a step there. It is one of the most wonderful forma- 
tions in the world. It extends from one side of the field to 
the other, a distance perhaps equal to two city blocks in 
length. 

It was behind this singular, natural breastworks that 
the rebels had concealed themselves, and quietly waited 
till we had got within shooting distance and then suddenly 
stood up and fired into us. When standing erect, their 
aimed muskets were a little above the higher level. It 
was thus that it appeared as if the enemy had actually 
arisen right out of the solid earth. 

They fired into us a murderous volley. 

Surprised, demoralized, we wavered and fell back and 
made for the first fence, on the nearest side of the road ! 

Does anybody wonder ? Remember that we were green 


136 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


troops. This was the first battle we had been in. It was 
scarcely two weeks since we had left the mustering camp 
at Newark. Perhaps there were not half a dozen men in 
the regiment who knew the least thing about loading and 
firing a rifle. Under such circumstances, and thus sur- 
prised by what seemed like an apparition of the enemy, 
the most experienced troops would have wavered. What 
wonder then that the green and inexperienced Thirteenth 
Regiment broke and with one accord made^ for the fence. 

Most of the officers, to their everlasting honor be it 
said, were marvelously cool and collected in that terrible 
scene. They succeeded in stopping the stampede. They 
re-formed us on the road before we had climbed the 
second fence, and we were again turned against the 
enemy. 

A cessation, for a few moments, not entirely, but par- 
tially, of the firing, enabled us to collect our shattered 
senses as we gazed over the meadow we had just left. 

Then we saw the murderous effect of the volley that 
had been fired into our ranks by the enemy concealed 
behind those natural breastworks. 

There in the meadow lay nine dead and sixty wounded 
men of the Thirteenth Regiment — the work of a single 
volley ! 

There was but one man there who seemed not to be 
wounded. It was Heber Wells, one of the bravest men in 
battle that ever lived. I wish that I had sufficient mastery 
of the pen to adequately describe and give proper tribute 
to Heber Wells’ bravery. 

Why had he remained behind in the storm of bullets 
that were whistling past him, when everybody else had 
fled? 

He had remained beside the body of his dead captain. 

Captain Irish had been killed ! 

When the captain saw the company wavering, he raised 
his sword aloft and cried out the words that have made 
his memory famous. 

“Rally, boys! Rally!” 

And just as he said this he fell, pierced by a bullet. 

Sergeant Wells saw him fall and returned to his side. 



' Rally, boys ! Rally!” And just as he said this, he fell, pierced by a 

bullet. 


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i37 


Wells imagined at first that the captain had been shot in 
the head, but could not find the wound. 

“Captain/’ said he, “are you hurt?” 

“Heber, I’m killed !” 

Captain Irish pressed his hand on his right breast, 
glanced gratefully at his faithful friend Heber, gasped 
painfully — and was dead ! 

And thus died one of the bravest, kindest-hearted men 
that ever lived. Thus died my old friend, my old em- 
ployer. When the members of Company K realized what 
had happened they were paralyzed with horror. The 
poetry of war, however, had been verified, for the first 
man to be killed was the captain, while in the brave act 
of rallying his wavering men. 

Heber Wells tore open the captain’s coat and shirt, and 
found a small wound near the right nipple of his breast. 
There was not a particle of blood oozing from it. But it 
had reached a vital spot. Wells put his ear to the cap- 
tain’s breast, and heard the last fluttering of his stilling 
heart. 

Then Wells searched the pockets, taking from them 
the captain’s watch, the papers and memorandums, and 
unfastened his sword. He tried to get the pocket knife 
and other things on the other side, but could not, on ac- 
count of the way the body was twisted around. There 
was imminent danger of the Union troops being repulsed 
and the body falling into the hands of the rebels, and 
Heber did not want any of the contents of the captain’s 
pockets to fall into the hands of the enemy. 

Then Wells made up his mind to rescue the body. The 
bullets were still whistling about his ears in a dangerous 
fashion, but he seemed to care naught for that. Picking 
up the things he had removed from the captain’s pockets, 
and his sword, he took them over to the road and called 
for volunteers to rescue the captain’s body. There were 
plenty of responses of this noble, yet sad duty, dangerous 
though it was. Of the volunteers, Wells selected Jacob 
Engle, Lewellen T. Probert and Jacob Berdan, and the 
four carried the captain’s body over the fence and laid it 
in the road. 

Word was sent home as soon as possible and a delega- 


i3 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


tion came on and took charge of the remains. They were 
brought home and Captain Irish’s funeral was one of the 
largest ever seen in Paterson. Business was suspended, 
the streets were hung with banners bearing the last 
famous words of the dead captain, flags were displayed 
at half-mast, all the public and many private buildings 
were draped with mourning, and an immense concourse 
of people followed the body to the grave at Sandy Hill, 
where it was buried. 

Captain Irish was a member of the First Baptist Church 
of Paterson, and a handsome memorial tablet was set in 
the walls, and is there yet. Later, when the Sons of 
Veterans were organized, the first post started in Paterson 
was named “Captain Hugh C. Irish Camp, No. 8.” 

Captain Irish was not the only one of Company K who 
lost his life in that battle. The others were Frederick C. 
King, Curtis Bowne, John B. Doremus, Robert Gam- 
mall and Abraham Margoff. The latter was killed in- 
stantaneously. The others were mortally wounded and 
died afterward. The case of Curtis Bowne was very pecu- 
liar, as will be described a little further on. 

Company C, the other Paterson company, also suffered 
severely, there being three who were fatally shot, namely : 
Peter Arlington, John M. Shepard and George Meyers. 
All these were Paterson boys. 

Altogether in the regiment, however, as before stated, 
there were nine killed and some sixty wounded, and the 
whole thing occurred in that one murderous volley, which 
did not take more time than it does to write this sen- 
tence. 

The captain being dead, the command of the company, 
fell on First Lieutenant Scott. But he was hors de combat 
too. 

The lieutenant was not killed, but sick — very sick. 
When Sergeant Wells went to look for him, he found the 
lieutenant lying alongside the fence, doubled up with 
cramps and vomiting like a dog. Sergeant Wells ordered 
a couple of men to take the lieutenant to the rear, and 
assumed command of the company himself. 

But the battle wasn’t over yet ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i39 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE REST OF ANTIETAM. 

Not much account of the time of day is kept during 
a battle, but everybody seems to agree that it was about 
9 o'clock in the morning when Captain Irish was killed. 

The battle of Antietam lasted all day on the 17th of 
September, 1862. So the fighting was not over yet, by 
any means. On the contrary it had just fairly begun. 

People who are reading this story for the fun it con- 
tains will not find much that is very funny right here. 
There were certainly a good many amusing things in the 
army, but there was just as many that were horrible. All 
phases of war life will be given in the order in which 
they come, the object being to present all the different 
experiences of a soldier just as they are, and that these 
reminiscences are given faithfully and accurately I am 
sure every veteran will admit. 

The battle of Antietam was not over yet, nor was the 
part the Thirteenth New Jersey played in it. From its 
position on the pike the regiment was ordered back into 
the woods, pretty nearly the same it had occupied before 
proceeding down to its baptism. 

We had scarcely got there before the enemy made his 
appearance in full force on the other side of the turnpike. 
Then our artillery opened upon them in good shape. This 
attack of the Confederates had evidently been intended 
to capture that battery on the hill, which was giving them 
a good deal of trouble. But they didn’t get that battery, 
not by a long shot. The enemy was given a hot dose of 
shot and shell and shrapnel and canister fnackages of 
bullets and slugs which burst open and mow down the 
ranks of the victims like a scythe), and the enemy was 
promptly sent back to his shelter at the edge of the 
woods. 


140 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The Thirteenth Regiment, already demoralized by the 
volley down in the meadow, where Captain Irish had been 
killed and so many wounded, had not got over it, and this 
second attack very much scattered them. It took some 
time for the officers to get them together in good shape 
again, but they finally succeeded in doing so. 

Just then an order came for the regiment to report to 
General Green, over by the “Dunker church/’ where the 
enemy was massing in force and pressing the Union 
troops dangerously. 

It is not often that I strike anything lucky, but I cer- 
tainly did just then. It became necessary to detail some 
men to guard some ammunition wagons that were bring- 
ing supplies to the battery on the hill, and as my name 
was next on the roster, I was one of the men selected for 
this duty. It was dangerous, of course, but nothing to be 
compared with ordinary fighting, and I gladly welcomed 
the “assignment.” Some of the other fellows greeted me 
enviously and offered to change places with me, but I did 
not see it in that light. 

So for the rest of the day I view the battle from the 
hills, following the ammunition wagons around from one 
place to another on the heights as they visited the dif- 
ferent batteries. I don’t know what special use there was 
for a guard for the wagons, but I did not stop to inquire. 

Any detail that will take a man out of the very front 
of a battle is always a welcome one. The cannon balls 
and shells came pretty close at times, but I had got some- 
what used to them, and nothing after all was so bad as the 
insidious little bullets of the rifles. 

The main portion of the regiment, however, was in it 
again for fair. They were marched down about a mile to 
the left, and up the hill back of the old Dunker church. 
This was a small brick structure, about the size of a coun- 
try schoolhouse, and it was right in the thick of the battle 
of the afternoon. It was struck several times, and big 
holes were made through the walls by the shells. 

And by the way the church and its surroundings look 
about as forlorn and uncivilized now as they did on the 
day of the battle, thirty-two and over years ago. The 
name “Dunker” arose from the fact that the church was 



The Thirteenth Regiment, however, stood its ground in a mannerj 
extremely creditable for new troops. 


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141 

the worshiping place of a religious sect called the 
Dunkards. 

Up back of this church the Thirteenth Regiment, led 
by General Green himself, came near being captured. The 
enemy advanced toward us with their guns held as if they 
were either out of ammunition or else wanted to sur- 
render, and quietly marched down to the right as if going 
peaceably to the rear. 

Adjutant Charles A. Hopkins (afterward captain of 
Company K), with another officer went out with a white 
handkerchief on a sword as a sort of truce to see what 
was meant by these mysterious movements. Hopkins had 
got out into the open field where he was exposed to every 
danger, when it became evident to everybody that the 
crafty enemy was trying to work the dodge of getting in 
our rear, and thus putting us between two fires, which 
would have annihilated the Thirteenth in a few moments. 

The scheme was discovered by the Union troops, and 
the fact that it was seen through was discovered by the 
Confederates almost simultaneously, and the firing began 
at once on both sides in a very lively sort of a manner. 
Those who were there say that the horror of the fight 
that was commenced was almost offset by the sight of 
Adjutant Hopkins and his companions skedaddling over 
that field to get out of the way of the bullets that came 
from both directions at once. As if by a miracle, however, 
neither of them was struck. 

This engagement lasted for an hour or so and there 
were a number of the Thirteenth killed and wounded. 
Some of those who are put down as being killed in the 
first volley may have been killed at this spot, as the 
records do not divide the encounters, the total loss being 
charged to the one engagement of “Antietam.” The Thir- 
teenth Regiment, however, stood its ground in a manner 
extremely creditable for new troops, but they were con- 
fronted by superior numbers, and were finally compelled 
to fall back to a safer position. Their place was taken, 
later, by fresher troops, who at least succeeded in hold- 
ing the position. 

In the meantime there was some very hard fighting in 
progress on the lower side of the Dunker church, where 


142 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

the memorable charge of the Sixth corps took place, a 
portion of which I observed from my elevated position on 
the hill with the artillery. Although I was personally in 
a state of fright for fear that something might happen to 
necessitate my being sent to the front again, yet I could 
not help admiring the magnificent exhibitions of bravery 
which I saw almost every minute. 

Fortunately for me, however, I was kept guarding that 
blessed ammunition wagon for the balance of the day. 
Had a shell struck it and exploded, both the wagon and 
myself, including the driver and the mules, would have 
ascended skyward, but I never thought of that, even if 
I knew it. When an old soldier told me afterward that 
guarding an ammunition wagon under an artillery fire was 
one of the most dangerous things in a fight, I felt quite 
nervous over the risks I had run. But where ignorance 
is bliss ’tis folly to be wise, and I never knew anything 
about the likelihood of an ammunition wagon blowing up. 
I faithfully attended to the duty of seeing that no one 
stole anything out of the wagon, and I supposed that was 
what I was there for. Certainly I could see no other 
reason. 

The Thirteenth Regiment after its retreat from the 
field near the Dunker church did not get into any more 
active fighting that day, although it was called upon sev- 
eral times to support other regiments and batteries. The 
fighting late in the afternoon was more severe further 
down in the direction of Sharpsburg, particularly around 
the old stone bridge over Antietam creek, where General 
Burnside made his famous stand, and which has ever 
since been called “Burnside Bridge.” 

So far as I could judge the line of battle front extended 
a distance of eight or ten miles from one end to the other, 
and the Hagerstown pike was practically the dividing 
line between the two armies all day. It is needless to say 
that every soldier was completely tired out when night 
finally came. 

Colonel Carman, the commandant of the Thirteenth, 
fell from his horse or was injured in some other way 
early in the engagement, and the command of the regi- 
ment fell to Lieutenant-Colonel Swords, and he acquitted 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i43 


himself with credit. General Mansfield was mortally 
wounded in the morning and the command of the corps 
fell on our division commander, General A. S. Williams. 
In the afternoon fighting Company K was commanded 
by Orderly Sergeant Wells, for there were no commis- 
sioned officers left, and so well did Sergeant Wells acquit 
himself that day that just as soon as necessary prelim- 
inary red tape arrangements could be gone through with 
he wore the shoulder-straps of a second lieutenant, and 
his place as orderly sergeant was taken by Sergeant Hank 
Van Orden. 

On the whole the Thirteenth, for the first time under 
fire, had acquitted itself with more than ordinary credit, 
and this was publicly accorded in subsequent “general 
orders,” which is the only way the rank and file ever get 
any premium on having more than done their duty. 

I am not trying to tell the whole story of the battle of 
Antietam. That is published in various volumes. I am 
only telling what I know of it. It is not much, to be sure, 
but it is as much as the ordinary private soldier knew 
about any battle in which he participated. 

No one had stolen the ammunition wagon and I had 
done my part of the duties of the day. When evening 
came the wagon was turned in with a lot of others to a 
sort of extemporized quartermaster’s department, and I 
naturally expected to be sent back to my company. 

But my troubles were not yet over for that night. 
Something entirely out of the usual run occurred, which 
prevented me from getting the much-needed night’s rest. 


144 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
a “slaughter house” sure. 

Instead of being ordered back to the regiment, I was, 
with some other men, sent down the road to guard some 
cattle that were to be killed in the morning for fresh beef. 
To my delight I found two other members of my com- 
pany detailed on the same duty. They were Curtis Bowne 
and E. L. Allen, both old printing-office associates, too. 

There were twelve cattle in the drove that we were to 
guard, under the charge of a corporal. We got them in 
a corner of a field, and divided ourselves up into three 
“reliefs,” that is, one of us was to watch for two hours 
while the others slept, when our turns would be changed, 
so that each man would have “two hours on and four 
off,” according to the regular custom. 

We lighted a fire, cooked some coffee, and had a smoke 
before turning in for a rest. The conversation of course 
turned on the events of the day, and particularly on the 
death of Captain Irish. Then we began to talk about the 
wounded members of Company K. 

“By the way,” said Bowne, “I got a little dose of it my- 
self. Look at this.” 

He took off his cap and turned his face toward the 
camp fire. In the middle of his forehead there was a 
small round bruise, as if it had been hit with a stone. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“I don’t know. I think I must have been hit by a spent 
ball that just bruised the skin without entering.” 

“You are sure that it did not go into your brains?” I 
remarked laughingly. I had no more of an idea of such a 
thing than Curt did. 

“No!” he answered good-naturedly. “My brains are 
not as soft as that.” 

“Does it hurt?” I asked. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i45 


“Not a bit,” was the answer. “It is nothing — not worth 
talking about.” 

And none of us thought at the time that it was. Yet 
at that very moment there was a one-ounce bullet im- 
bedded in Curt Bowne’s brain that afterward caused his 
death. He remained with the regiment for some days and 
then his head began to pain him so badly that he had to 
be sent to the hospital. He grew worse, but very slowly, 
and he actually lived until the following March, when he 
died from the effects of the wound which was at first sup- 
posed by all to be so trivial. 

This certainly was a singular case. I am told that it 
was duplicated during the war, but there were few in- 
stances like it. For a man to live from September till the 
following March with a large bullet imbedded in the folds 
of his brain is certainly something wonderful. The theory 
of the doctors, if I remember rightly, was that the bullet 
had passed between the convolutions of the brain without 
lacerating their coverings, that there was consequently no 
immediate internal hemorrhage, and that death resulted at 
last from slow inflammation. 

We couldn’t get over the sad death of Captain Irish, 
and as two of my comrades of that night had worked with 
me under him in the Guardian office, we felt all the more 
keenly his loss. It seemed as if we had suffered the loss 
of a relative. I felt very moist about the eyes when I re- 
called how he had bathed my blistered feet with ointment 
only a few days before in the camp at Rockville. 

“What is that strange noise?” remarked Bowne; “it 
sounds like some one humming.” 

We listened. There certainly was a queer noise com- 
ing from the direction of an old barn on the lower end 
of the field. But we didn’t pay much attention to it then. 
We went on discussing the battle. 

During the day, in the excitement, it had appeared like 
nothing but a gigantic excitement — a rushing mob, with 
deafening thunders of cannon and rattling volleys of 
musketry ; of crowds of men rushing hither and thither ; 
of men and horses falling around us ; of bloody soldiers 
hastening frantically to some quiet and safe spot. It was 
a nightmare ! 


146 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


But now that it was over we began to realize what 
we had gone through. As each minute passed the horrors 
of the day seemed to stand out more and more vivid. 
With blanched faces each gave his version of the scene of 
the slaughter, and the merits and demerits of the indi- 
vidual members of Company K were discussed at length. 

All through it all came that strange murmuring noise 
we had referred to. It was a low hum, like the sound of 
the insects on a summer’s night, only less sharp. It 
formed a background of our whole talk. More than once 
we stopped to listen and wonder what it was. 

“Did any one see John Ick during the fight?” I asked. 

“Didn’t you hear about him?” answered Curt. 

“No.” 

“Why, he sneaked !” 

“Sneaked !” 

“That’s what he did — sneaked out!” 

“How was that ?” 

“Well, when the company was re-formed in the road 
after that sudden volley, you know,” said Bowne, ex- 
plaining, “some one asked what had become of John Ick 
and Reddy Mahar. Lem Smith said that he saw them 
going over toward the woods on a run. One of the 
sergeants, I think it was Hank Van Orden, was sent to 
see if he could find them and bring them back to the regi- 
ment, which was just then marching back to the placq 
where it had been in the morning.” 

“Well,” I asked, interrupting, “did he find them?” 

“The sergeant didn’t find Reddy. He turned up after- 
ward from somewhere. But Hank found Ick, and where 
do you think he was?” 

I answered that I was sure I could not tell. 

“Up in the woods, behind a tree,” said Curt. “He had 
got an old rubber overcoat somewhere, which he had put 
on, and then squatted behind the tree. The coat was cov- 
ered with mud and looked like a big stone. In fact Hank 
said he thought it was a rock at first. But the stone 
coughed, and looking a little closer, Hank discovered Ick 
hiding under it. Hank gave him a kick and told him to 
come back to the company. Ick said that he had had 
enough of the slaughter-house business and was going 
home. But Hank made him come along.” 



Hank gave him a kick and told him to go back to the company. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


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“Did he take part in the fight in the afternoon ?” I 
asked. 

“Yes,” answered Curt, “and he stood up to the rack 
like a major. He seemed to have got over his panic of the 
morning.” 

“Well, I declare,” said I. “I imagined that with all his 
talk about slaughter houses that he would be all right 
when it came to a pinch. But where did Reddy come 
from ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Curt. “He arrived in the camp 
just as I left the company to come here.” 

“Did any of the other fellows of Company K sneak?”- 
I asked. 

“Not a single one of them, they all ” 

“For the love of God, don’t— Oh-h-h !” 

This came over from the direction of the barn before 
referred to. It was not like a cry. It was a shriek. It was 
a loud-cracked voice, that seemed to come from the very 
depths of some human soul. I never heard such a tone of 
voice in my life again. It was like the shriek of a 
wounded horse. 

We listened, breathless. Then we heard that mysteri- 
ous, low moaning chorus that had attracted our attention 
so often. 

“Suppose we go over to that barn and see what it is, 
Joe,” suggested Liv. Allen. 

I consented and went. I wished that I never had. 

The old barn was being utilized as a field hospital. It 
was one of those big old-fashioned Southern barns, with 
a large open space in the middle of a row of stalls on the 
two sides. The floor was covered with wounded men, ly- 
ing closely side by side. 

On the bare floor, in a row, as thick as they could lie, 
were the maimed human beings that had just been oper- 
ated upon. Some were conscious, but the most of them 
were moaning and groaning. These moans and groans 
arose in the night air like a chorus. It was this that we 
had heard from our place on the opposite side of the field 
where we were guarding the cattle. 

I passed between the rows of wounded men, many of 
whom would never be removed from their hard couches, 


148 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


except as corpses. Liv. and I stopped to look more care- 
fully at one poor fellow whose face seemed familiar. 

This poor wretch — we didn’t recognize him after all — 
had just suffered an amputation of the left arm at the 
shoulder joint. 

He looked at me appealingly, as if he wished to say 
something. I knelt at his side and held down my ear. 

He made an effort to speak, but not a sound came from 
his lips. On the contrary, he simply turned his head — 
and there ran from his mouth a stream of what looked 
like dark-green paint. His legs stiffened out, a convulsion 
passed over him, an ashen hue suffused his face. He was 
dead ! 

Horror-stricken I rushed through the barn and out of 
the rear side, closely followed by Liv. Allen. 

We had better have gone the other way, for here were 
horrors a thousand times worse. The surgeons were at 
their ghoulish work on this side of the barn. 

Upon a board, laid upon two barrels, was stretched a 
human form. Perhaps it was the same poor fellow whose 
yell of anguish had aroused and startled us. But he was 
silent now. A young medical cadet was holding a chloro- 
form-saturated handkerchief to his nose. The doctors 
were about to amputate the shattered mass of flesh that 
was once a leg. 

The surgeons were in their shirt sleeves. The aprons 
that some of them wore were as red with blood as if they 
had been butchers. Assistants held candles to light the 
operation. I saw the doctor give one cut into the fleshy 
part of the man’s thigh — and fled ! 

But I ran straight into another amputating table — a 
board over two barrels. Here they were taking off an 
arm! Turning, I ran against another! In every direction 
that I might go, I would run against one of the horrid 
things. 

Blinded with fright and terror, I tried to escape. I 
don’t know what became of my companion. Seeing an ap- 
parently open way, I deliriously rushed in that direction, 
but meeting some obstruction, I stumbled and fell. 

What had I fallen into ? In grasping to steady myself, 
I caught hold of something wet and slimy ! It was quite 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


149 


dark, but I could sec ! I could see all too plainly. Would 
to heaven I could not see ! 

I had fallen headlong into a heap of horrors — a pile 
of human legs and arms that had just been amputated. I 
shall not attempt to say how many there were. Were 
I to say there were a dozen wagon-loads of arms and legs, 
hands and feet, in that ghastly pile, I might not be be- 
lieved ! 

And yet I do not believe it would be an exaggera- 
tion. 

As I lay there, scrambling for a foothold in that slimy, 
slippery, bloody, hideous mass of cold flesh — human flesh 
— there arose from one of the operating tables another 
wild shriek: 

“Oh, doctor! Oh! O-h! Oh-h-h! O-o-o-o-o-h! . . 

kill me ! Kill me and be done with it ! Kill me, and put 
me out of my misery !” 

My overwrought brain could stand no more ! I fainted ! 

I dropped unconscious into the slimy, slippery, bloody 
mass of amputated legs and arms ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


150 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A WONDERFUL FREAK OF NATURE. 

The incidents related in the preceding chapter are not 
exaggerations. There is not a soldier living who went 
through several battles but that has seen great piles of 
dismembered arms and legs lying around the operating 
tables of the surgeons. A veteran who was at the battle 
of Gettysburg says that he was one of a detail to bury 
these horrible human remnants, and he counted no less 
than eight hundred in the pile around the operating table 
of one temporary hospital. And at that battle there were 
a hundred of such places where a similar thing was to be 
seen. 

You pass middle-aged or old men on the streets even 
now, minus arms or legs. A large proportion of them 
were wounded in the army, and their lost limbs are 
mingled with the dust of some Southern battlefield. The 
sight of encountering such a hideous pile the first time is 
enough to overcome almost anybody. It overcame me, 
and when I fell headlong into the bloody, slimy mass, it 
made my stomach turn, my head swim, and I fainted. 

I do not know how long I remained unconscious. 
When I recovered I was lying beside the rail-fence fire 
that had been started by my companions on the cattle 
guard. They revived me with a cup of hot coffee, which 
was the panacea for all the ills of the soldier, the same as 
whisky is for some people in civil life. 

I was very much fatigued and fell asleep. So did the 
others. It was Curt Bowne’s turn to keep awake and 
guard the cattle. Like the rest of us he was tired out, and 
perhaps the wound in his head made him the more 
drowsy. At all events he fell asleep too, when he should 
have remained awake, and some time during the night 
Liv. Allen awoke to find that the cattle had disappeared. 
There was not a single steer to be seen. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


151 

Whatever become of those twelve cattle — whether they 
were driven off by some one when we were asleep, or 
whether they had some presentiment of the “slaughter 
house” that John Ick was always talking about — none of 
us ever knew. All that we did know was that there were 
twelve steers there when we were placed in charge and 
none when we awoke in the night from our sound sleep. 
Take twelve from twelve and nothing remains. 

What should we do? Here we were confronted by an 
entirely new problem; we had a vague sort of an idea 
that it was a serious matter for a soldier to go to sleep on 
his post, but did not know what the penalty was — at least 
not then. We had no excuse to offer, for the offense was 
self-apparent. The cattle were not there. Any one could 
see that — or rather they could not see it — or them ! 

So we held a council of war. 

“There is only one thing that I can see that we can 
do,” said Liv. Allen. He wasn’t a Methodist minister at 
that time and might perhaps make suggestions that he 
would not make in these days. “There is only one thing 
that we can do, and that is to see if we cannot find those 
cattle — or some others. If they are not the same ones, 
who can tell the difference ?” 

We caught on. Liv.’s proposition, stripped of all sur- 
plus verbiage, was to get twelve cattle somehow — hon- 
estly if we could, but get them anyhow. So we started 
out on a nocturnal hunt. 

It has often struck me since as strange that we met no 
guards or pickets or other things to stop us that night and 
ask us where we were going, and if we had a pass. But 
we encountered nothing of the sort. We went right along 
without the least molestation. 

We passed through thousands of sleeping soldiers along 
each side of the road (it was Hagerstown pike), and more 
than once passed droves of cattle, but their guards were 
more faithful than we had been. They were awake and 
watchful. There were no appropriating any of those 
herds. 

“If we don’t strike a fat barnyard, we’re lost,” said 
Curt Bowne. We all had arrived at the same conclu- 
sion. 


152 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“And there is no use following this main road/’ said 
Liv. Allen, wisely. “Let’s strike off somewhere to one 
side.” 

I don’t know how far we went, but we finally came 
to a large barn on a farm that seemed well stocked and 
prosperous, and carefully going around behind it we were 
delighted to find the yard back of the building filled with 
cattle. With as little noise as possible we picked out 
twelve (as we supposed) of the cows and corraled them. 

None of us apparently remembered that we had been 
placed in charge of steers, and these were cows. In fact 
I don’t think any one thought of that matter. In the 
darkness of the night it would perhaps have been some- 
what difficult to distinguish anyhow. 

The corporal who was in charge of the guard which 
we three printers from the Thirteenth composed, wa$ 
an old soldier — one of the Third Wisconsin boys. He 
had gone through the mill and knew the ropes. 

“This is a snap,” said he, as he emerged from a small 
building alongside the barn, holding a big rooster by 
the legs. The fowl began to squawk, but that was soon 
stopped by seizing him by the neck. 

Bowne and Allen had followed suit, and each came out 
with a fine chicken. I was about to do the same thing, 
when the corporal interrupted : 

“We have got about enough poultry,” said he. “In 
that next shed you will find some fine suckin’ pigs. Get 
one of them.” 

I reached over the fence and carefully grabbed one of 
the little pigs from its snug bed under its mother’s side. 
The old sow grunted, but did not seem to appreciate the 
loss of one of her helpless offspring. But I had not gone 
far before that infernal young pig began the most out- 
rageous squealing, and all that I could do I could not 
stop it. 

“Drop it, d — n the critter,” said the corporal. “Let’s 
git. There is no time to fool around here now.” 

And we “got.” The other fellows held on to their 
chickens £>ut I was empty handed except for the stick I 
had picked up to facilitate the driving of the cattle. 

“I’m afraid we will catch it for this in the morning,” 



I reached over the fence and carefully grabbed one of the little pigs. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i53 


said I, when I began to appreciate the fact that we were 
nothing but a lot of cattle thieves. 

“Nonsense, pard,” said the corporal from the Wiscon- 
sin regiment. “These critters will be all cut up into mince- 
meat by the time the old codger who owns them finds out 
that they are gone. Besides, this is nothing for these 
times. I have done this same thing many a time before. 
It’s a darned sight better than getting hauled up for sleep- 
ing on our posts.” 

I thought perhaps this might be so, but my conscience 
troubled me a little still. I was a young soldier, and 
hadn’t got hardened to such things. Many a time I 
helped do similar acts afterward and never once thought 
about it — unless caught at it ! 

It was nearly daylight when we got back to the place 
where we had been posted at sunset, and drove the cattle 
into the same corner and relighted the fire. And when 
the sun arose we sat and stood around with faces as inno- 
cent as if we had faithfully performed our duty and had 
not been away from the place at all. 

We had a good breakfast of broiled chicken that morn- 
ing. The broiling was done by sticking parts of the fowl 
on the end of sticks and holding them into the flames of 
the fire, and I can assure the reader that that is a good 
way to broil chicken all the same. We did not use the 
whole of it for breakfast, but put what was left in our 
haversacks for a future occasion. 

At 9 o’clock the relief came along and a new guard 
took charge of the cattle. 

“How’s this?” asked the officer of the new guard, of 
our corporal. “This order says that you are to be re- 
lieved of the charge of twelve steers. And these are cows. 
And let me see — one, two, three, etc. — why, there are thir- 
teen of them ! How’s that ?” 

We privates looked dismayed as we ran our eyes over 
the cattle and counted thirteen. In the darkness of the 
night we had stolen one too many. But no officer could 
throw that Wisconsin corporal ofif his guard. 

“Don’t know nothing about it, lufiftenant,” said he. 
“Them there’s the critters we had turned over to us. I 


i54 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


didn’t count ’em. Guess the other fellows must have 
made a mistake.” 

“But they’re cows, not steers,” said the officer. “And 
you ought to know that the government never kills cows 
for beef.” 

None of us had noticed this wonderful freak of nature. 

“Don’t know nothing about that,” replied the corporal. 
“If them was steers yesterday they must have changed 
during the night somehow, for they’re cows now sure 
enough. It am a curious circumstance, I vow.” 

The lieutenant evidently thought there was no use 
arguing the point with the corporal any further and said 
nothing more. We were relieved of our charge and or- 
dered back to our brigade. 

“Dash my buttons,” said the corporal, when we had 
got out of hearing. “I wish some of you fellows would 
give me a good kick.” 

“What for, corporal ?” I asked. 

“Don’t you see,” he answered, “we had one critter too 
many, and we might ha’ killed her and had fried brains 
for our breakfast. And then did you see them udders? 
We might ha’ had milk in our coffee. Kick me for a 
fool !” 

He was an old soldier. And to lose such an unusual 
opportunity to improve the menu of a soldier was not at 
all in “accordance with the regulations.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


*55 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SLEEPING WITH A DEAD REB. 

We got back to the Thirteenth Regiment about n 
o’clock. We passed through what seemed to be many 
miles of soldiers, all resting. They were lying about, 
smoking and otherwise taking it easy. And they needed 
the rest, for it was the first time there had been a stop in 
many days, and everybody was played out from the previ- 
ous day’s big battle. There is nothing more fatiguing 
than a 'battle. One does not notice at the time how much 
marching and running about he has. When the excite- 
ment is over the reaction comes and nature demands a 
rest. 

It was the first I had seen of my company since I had 
left them immediately after the murderous volley that 
killed Captain Irish. I found the boys downhearted over 
the loss of the captain. The particulars of the afternoon 
fighting were related to me, together with many other 
interesting and thrilling incidents that I had not person- 
ally noticed or participated in. Nothing was talked about 
but the previous day’s experience. The boys had seen a 
battle. They did not care to see any more. All had had 
enough ! 

Lieutenant Scott had recovered from his sickness and 
was in command of the company, while Orderly Sergeant 
Wells, beside his legitimate duties, seemed to be acting 
in the capacity of lieutenant also. 

What struck all the soldiers that day, and it has sim- 
ilarly impressed all the subsequent historians of the war, 
was why General McClellan did not follow up the enemy. 
The fight, as it stood, was what might be called a drawn 
battle. Neither party could claim a victory. 

From the camp occupied by the Thirteenth Regiment 
on September 18, 1862, we could see the camps of the 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


156 

enemy on the opposite hills. We could see their flags 
and their guards. We could see their cannons and their 
mounted officers. They seemed to manifest no disposi- 
tion to renew the fight ; neither did we. 

All through that day we momentarily expected to hear 
a cannon shot that would be the signal for the renewal of 
hostilities, but it did not come. Everything was as quiet 
as a country convention, except for the drums and bugles 
that we could hear from the camps of the rebels as plainly 
as we could hear our own. 

Toward night we could see the signal flags of the 
enemy wig-wagging from the hills, and we took it for 
granted that that was preliminary to a renewal of the 
fighting in the morning. When we went to sleep that 
night we fully believed that we would be aroused before 
daylight by the thunders of the artillery and that that 
would be another day of terrible carnage. 

But the battle was over. In the morning when we 
looked in the direction of the enemy’s camp there was 
nothing to be seen. The rebels had quietly sneaked away 
during the night and had crossed the Potomac in safety. 

There was not one of us private soldiers but was glad 
that the fighting was over for the present, but at the 
same time there was not one who could understand why 
General McClellan had not followed up the advantage 
he had. He might have pursued the rebels that day and, 
forcing them down to the banks of the river, simply anni- 
hilated them and ended the war then and there. General 
McClellan, in the opinion of the soldiers generally, was 
one of the best officers the army ever had, but his conduct 
on that occasion was never satisfactorily explained to 
them. 

In the afternoon of the following day (the 19th) we 
were ordered to move, and we marched through a good 
^ part of the battlefield. Then for the first time we appre- 
ciated what an awful battle it had been. Blackened re- 
mains of soldiers lay scattered everywhere, gray and blue 
side by side, leveled in death. It was an impressive thing 
to see a dead Union soldier lying beside a dead Confed- 
erate. Both had been cut down in the act of trying to 
take each other’s life. How futile it all was ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


iS7 


There lay the dead soldier in blue. By his side lay 
the dead soldier in gray. What was it to them now? 
Their life struggles were over, and what was the bene- 
fit? Perhaps both of them had families to support. I 
can tell the reader that this sight brought up many 
strange feelings. It touched the heart as nothing else 
could. Could the dispute have been left to the rank and 
file, how quickly would the war have been ended. 

The Union loss in that battle was 11,420, and that of 
the Confederates, 10,000. But few of the bodies had 
been buried. In places — “Bloody Lane,” for instance — 
the dead bodies had been piled up six and eight high, 
just where they had fallen upon each other in hand-to- 
hand conflict. Many Union soldiers had been stripped 
of their uniforms by the half-clothed rebels, and lay there 
stark naked, stiff and dead, in most cases with their 
limbs drawn up as if they had died in agony. Many of 
the bodies had turned so black that at first they were mis- 
taken for negroes. 

Dead horses lay everywhere. Broken muskets, unlim- 
bered cannon, wrecks of caissons and baggage wagons 
were scattered about. The ground seemed to be actually 
strewn with discarded cartridge boxes and belts, and you 
could pick up a vet’s blanket every few feet. 

There were a good many stragglers. Many fell out 
of the ranks from sheer fatigue. I was one of them. 
The excitement of the past two or three days and the 
fact of having undergone so much fatigue were too much 
for me. During one of the stops I crawled up to the side 
of a fence, lay down and fell asleep. 

The reader will perhaps begin to think that I was a 
confirmed “straggler.” I can’t well deny the allegation. 
But I had plenty of company, for there were many others 
just as bad. 

I did not wake till some time late in the night. The 
last of the army had passed. I could hear the “tinkle, 
tinkle” of the thousands of tin cups in the far off dis- 
tance. There was no use of my trying to catch up with 
the regiment. So I decided to make myself comfortable 
for the balance of the night. 

There were plenty of other stragglers lying about 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


158 

some of them were not stragglers asleep, but dead men, 
although I did not know it at the time. We were still 
on a part of the battlefield. Although the days were 
warm the nights were chilly, and I felt cold. The usual 
thing to do on such occasions is to seek some other sol- 
dier, lie beside him and share blankets. The two blankets 
and the heat from each other’s bodies keep the men warm, 

I soon found a fellow, alone and prepared to lie beside 
him. Nothing was thought of such a proceeding in the 
army. He was awake. 

“Can I share your bed with you, pard ?” I asked. 

“Sartin,” was the answer. “I am a little shivery, for 
I’ve shed a lot of blood from this wound.” 

“Are you wounded ?” I asked, in surprise. 

“Yes,” he answered, “right through my side here. But 
I guess it escaped my vitals, for it don’t hurt much, al- 
though it has bled considerable. What regiment be you 
from ?” 

“The Thirteenth New Jersey.” 

“Why, that’s Yanks !” 

“Certainly, what did you think it was ?” I asked. 

“Nothin’, only I’m a Johnnie,” said my companion. I 
involuntarily pushed back a little. “Don’t be scart, pard,” 
said he. “I’m not going to harm ye. We’re all the same. 
If we fellers had the settlin’ o’ this thing, I guess it 
wouldn’t last long, would it, pard ?” 

“I don’t think it would,” I answered. “What regiment 
do you belong to ?” 

“I’m from Galveston. I belong to the — th Texas.” 
(I have forgotten the number of his regiment.) 

“How long have you .been in the service?” I asked. 

“I ’listed in ’61,” he answered. “How long you bin 
in?” 

“Only about two weeks,” I answered. “We got into 
a fight almost as soon as we got here, and lost our cap- 
tain in the first round.” 

“Maybe I’m the fellow what killed him,” said he. “No- 
body knows. But that is all the better, isn’t it, pard?” 

I admitted that it was. And indeed such was the fact. 
If any particular soldier on either side knew positively 



I put my hand on his face. It was as cold as ice. My rebel bedfellow 
was dead ! 


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* 









































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i59 


that he had killed any particular man he would feel a 
good deal worse over it. 

I don’t know how long we talked together, we men 
who had been deadly enemies the day before. It might 
strike the reader as a queer proceeding, but I can assure 
him that outside of the battles the men on each side were 
brothers and friends, as many an old soldier can testify. 

But we finally fell asleep. 

It grew colder and colder toward morning. I snug- 
gled closer to my companion, but that did not seem to 
increase the warmth as it usually does. I was too sleepy, 
however, to make investigations. 

The sun was beginning to shine before I awoke the 
last time and threw off the blankets that covered myself 
and my bedfellow. 

“Pard,” said I, ‘fit’s time to get up. The breakfast bell 
will ring in a moment.” 

I shook my companion but he did not stir. I looked 
closely into his face. It was ashen. 

I put my hand on his face. It was as cold as ice. 

My rebel bedfellow was dead ! 


i6o 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

"jEFF DAVIS” AND I. 

To say that I was startled when I found that my bed- 
fellow for the night was a corpse would be putting it 
mild. I think it would startle anybody to wake up and 
find the person he had last spoken to at his side before 
going to sleep cold and stiff in death. I sprang up in 
horror and involuntarily hurried from the scene. 

Then a second thought struck me. As a matter of 
common decency was it not right that I should try to 
see who this poor fellow was and send word to his fam- 
ily? He had said that he belonged to the — th Texas 
regiment and that his home was in Galveston. That was 
all I knew. I decided to search his pockets. 

Besides the usual miscellaneous assortment of strings, 
knives and other things to be found in a soldier’s pocket I 
came across two tintypes. One of them was of a middle- 
aged woman and the other was of a pretty little girl about 
ten or eleven years of age. These I at once surmised to 
be the dead rebel’s wife and daughter. I also found two 
letters that he had received, which were addressed to 
“James H. Thompson, — th Regiment, Army of Northern 
Virginia.” 

This is the way envelopes were addressed by the Con- 
federates. They called this particular branch of the army 
“the Army of Northern Virginia,” while the Union sol- 
diers always called it “Army of the Potomac.” Letters 
to men in the army were thus addressed, giving the name, 
regiment and army, and in some mysterious way, after 
the lapse of two or three weeks maybe after they were 
written, the letters would reach the party to whom they 
were addressed — perhaps. The mail regulations in war 
times are anything but perfect! 

It may also interest the reader of the present time to 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 161 

know that a letter sent by a soldier to friends at home 
did not necessarily have a postage stamp on the envelope. 
It was for obvious reasons a practical impossibility for a 
soldier to go to the post office to buy stamps, and so the 
letters went through just as well without them. 

Both of these letters to James H. Thompson were from 
his wife, and they were painfully pathetic and affection- 
ate. I also found a half-written letter which was to be 
sent to the poor fellow’s wife, which, so far as I can re- 
member, read about as follows : 

“My Dear Wife : I will try to write you a few lines 
to let you know that I have been wounded in a fight in 
Maryland, but it does not seem to amount to much, al- 
though it prevents me from marching. They left me 
here on the field. I suppose they thought I was dead. 
Our army has marched on and the Yanks are coming this 
way and I expect that I will be taken prisoner. I cannot 
stir away from this place and they won’t have much trou- 
ble in taking me, I guess. When you next hear from me 
it will likely be some time in a good while from some 
Yankee prison. But I don’t care, for I am tired of fight- 
ing and marching and I hope this thing will soon be over, 
for I am sick of it. From the looks of things it will not 
last much longer, for Lee is driving the Yanks right up 
north and they will surely give it up. I expect to be home 
to see you soon. Tell Old Meigs that I will be back after 
my job in the shop before long. I wish you would 
see ” 

Here the unfinished letter ended. Alas, how pathetic- 
ally it read after what had happened. I was glad now 
that I came back to see what I could find in the poor fel- 
low’s pockets. 

I tore a piece of paper off the blank side of the sheet 
and wrote on it the name and address, “James H. Thomp- 
son, — th Texas Regiment. This man lived somewhere 
in Galveston.” This I put back in his pocket. 

As soon as I got an opportunity, which was not for 
some days after, I wrote a letter explaining the circum- 
stances, and inclosing the other letters I had found and 


j 62 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the tintypes, and sent them all addressed to “Mrs. J. H. 
Thompson, Galveston.” I never heard a word of the 
matter afterward, and so could not say whether they ever 
reached their destination. I intended to write again to 
Mrs. Thompson after the war was over but the matter 
was forgotten entirely until I hunted over my memoran- 
dums for the materials for this story. It would have 
given me considerable satisfaction to have known if the 
information I sent to Texas had reached its destination. 
(See Appendix.) 

I was not the only straggler from the Union army, by 
any means. As they say nowadays, the woods were full 
of them. From the worn roads, the demolished fences, 
and other evidences we knew what direction the army had 
taken, and we followed along the road in a go-as-you- 
please march. I here fell in with one of the most peculiar 
characters of the Thirteenth Regiment, and perhaps one 
of the most peculiar characters in the entire army. 

His name was Davis. I don’t remember what his first 
name was, but the boys always called him “Jeff.” “Jeff 
Davis” became one of the noted characters of the brigade. 

He never would keep up with the regiment on a march. 
He was a short, stout fellow of the coarsest grain, physic- 
ally, so stooped in the shoulders that he looked hump- 
backed. He was as strong as an ox, and about as bright 
intellectually as a mule. He also resembled the latter ani- 
mal in stubbornness. He is the chap who has been al- 
ready referred to as the man who would always insist on 
carrying two knapsacks and two haversacks, and if he 
had been asked to carry two guns he would not have 
minded it much. 

Davis, at the battle of Antietam, when ordered to go 
into the fight, stepped out of the ranks and fired off his 
rifle into the air. He said that he wanted to see if it was 
all right before wasting any cartridges on the rebels. And 
all through the fight he had his gun swathed in an extra 
overcoat. 

The quantity of stuff that this fellow carried was as- 
tonishing. He had enough equipments for the supply of 
an ordinary squad. He was a perfect miser so far as 
accumulating necessary articles was concerned, and it 



The quantity of stuff that this fellow carried was astonishing. He had 
enough equipments for the supply of an ordinary squad. 

Page 1 6a 

























' 






THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 163 

did not seem to make the slightest difference how heavy 
a weight he had on his shoulders. 

As said, the officers could no more keep “Jeff Davis” 
in the ranks on a march than they could fly. He would 
take his time, walking along as he chose, and generally 
reaching camp two or three days after the regiment had 
arrived. It was always a great wonder how he escaped 
being gobbled up by the guerrillas. 

Neither would he go into a tent with the company. 
He always insisted in making up a bed for himself on 
the ground immediately behind the colonel’s tent. 
Neither would he drill or do any other of the ordinary 
duties of a soldier. He was too stupid to learn anything 
and it was not considered safe to intrust him to picket or 
guard duty, for the chances were ten to one that he 
would not remain on his post five minutes after the cor 7 
poral left. He was punished in every imaginable way, 
but all that seemed to make no more impression upon him 
than pouring water on a duck’s back. 

After all sorts of trials, he was finally assigned to the 
duty of caring for one of Colonel Carman’s horses, and 
that he did well, and he was retained as hostler for the 
balance of his term. 

But old Jeff wasn’t a bad companion during the time 
we were marching along with the stragglers, looking for 
the army that had left us behind. Jeff knew how to cook 
almost everything, and he managed to have a good supply 
of things in his larder (haversack) that were not included 
in the regular army menu. He also had two or three 
extra blankets, so that we were comfortable. Further- 
more, there was a quaintness and originality about the 
old fellow that made him interesting — at least for a while, 

We stragglers were four or five days getting along 
alone before we reached the regiment in camp at Mary- 
land Heights. In the meantime the regiment had reached 
Sandy Hook, a place some distance below Harper’s 
Ferry, and was in camp there two or three days, but we 
could not find them. There were over one hundred thou- 
sand men scattered about, and it was no easy matter to 
find a particular regiment in that crowd. When we got 
to Sandy Hook we found that the regiment had moved 


164 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


down the river to Maryland Heights. It was the day, 
after — that is, the 24th of September — before we finally 
found them and rejoined our comrades of Company K. 

Maryland Heights has already been previously de- 
scribed. It is located at the confluence of the Potomac 
and Shenandoah and immediately across the Potomac 
from Harper’s Ferry. 

There wasn’t much to Harper’s Ferry in those days, 
although so far as the village itself is concerned it really 
did not look much larger on the occasion of a visit there 
recently. It is a historic place, particularly in regard to 
matters relating to the Civil War, for it was here that the 
first act of the preliminaries to the war was perpetrated — 
John Brown’s raid. It also figured extensively in various 
movements during the war, for the reasons before de- 
scribed of its being such an important strategic point. 

From our camp we could look down and take a bird’s- 
eye view of Harper’s Ferry. None of the immense rail- 
road bridges now there were to be seen in those days. 
There had been a railroad bridge but it had been de- 
stroyed, and the only way to cross was on a pontoon 
bridge. 

A pontoon bridge is made by taking a lot of small 
scows and anchoring them at regular intervals across the 
river. Then stout timbers are laid from one boat to the 
other, and across these timbers are laid heavy planks, 
which form the floor of the bridge. It is astonishing what 
a load these bridges will carry, even to quite large cannon 
and heavy baggage wagons. The boats are carried on the 
march on wheels and the timber and planking on wagons, 
and the shortness of the time required to make a bridge 
across the river is wonderful. These bridges are all right 
unless the anchors slip. Then there is trouble. The 
bridge goes to pieces in an instant, and whatever is upon 
it is precipitated into the water. I have seen this more 
than once. 

Some of the things that occurred while we were in 
camp on Maryland Heights I shall defer till another 
chapter. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


165 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE "PUP TENT." 

We had been in the service just four weeks. And 
what an exciting month it had been ! We had gone 
through one of the hardest battles of the war up to that 
time, had participated in fatiguing marches and had prac- 
tically seen as much service in those respects as some 
regiments that had been enlisted five times as long. 

And yet we had never had a rest, never been in a field 
camp, hardly ever had any drilling. We had set a pace 
and beaten a record, for there was not another regiment 
in the army that could equal this hasty, sudden precipita- 
tion into active warfare. 

We were glad enough therefore when informed that 
we were likely to remain in Camp Maryland Heights for 
some time, and that we might proceed to make ourselves 
comfortable. As a matter of fact we remained there till 
the 27th of October, which is quite a long time for an 
army at a time of the year when the war might be prose- 
cuted. 

Of course we did not know how long or how short a 
time we were likely to remain there, but we proceeded to 
make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and to do so 
was no easy task. We had no tents or anything else to 
shelter us. Our tents had been left at Rockville, together 
with our knapsacks, and we had nothing to protect us 
from the weather except such things as blankets, and a 
few overcoats, for we had been under light marching or- 
ders since we left Rockville. The old soldiers had “pup 
tents,” but we had nothing. So we undertook to build 
some log huts. 

It was a long distance to the nearest forest, and that 
made it a difficult job to get the necessary timber to the 
camp. Details were made from each company to fell trees 


i66 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


and bring the logs to camp, but that was a slow process. 
In the meantime we were exposed to the weather. 

For a wonder, ever since we had left home we had 
had clear weather. We never thought of its being any- 
thing else. The days were warm, and the nights cool, 
as they usually are in September, but it had remained 
clear. So when an old-fashioned rainstorm came along 
it introduced us to a new misery. 

I can’t imagine a more doleful state of affairs than a 
camp in a rainstorm. A more forlorn set than Company 
K it would be hard to imagine. We had erected the side 
walls of our little log cabins, and had plastered the chinks 
with mud, but they had no covering. Some of the boys 
had utilized their rubber blankets for this purpose, but 
the most of us had foolishly thrown away our “ponchos,” 
as they were called. 

So we had nothing to do but to mope around and an- 
swer to roll call and cook coffee in the drenching rain in 
the daytime, and sleep on the bare ground exposed to the 
deluge at night. Is it a wonder that many of the boys got 
sick ? Is it a wonder that many of them never recovered 
from the effects of such exposure even after their return 
home when the war was over? I was “bunking” with 
Heber Wells, and it was at Maryland Heights that he re- 
ceived a box from home, filled with cakes, fresh home- 
made bread (fresh when it left home) and potatoes 
(something we did not get in the army very often) ; on 
the top of it all some fine smoking tobacco, which was a 
great improvement over the “dried chips” sold by the 
sutlers. 

Heber and I used that box as a cover for our heads in 
the rain. To be sure the rest of our bodies was outdoors, 
drenched to the skin, but our heads and faces were pro- 
tected and we pitied the other fellows who had no nice 
boxes to protect themselves with ! 

The rain lasted several days and I do not think there 
was ever more, suffering and discomfort experienced by 
a body of soldiers during the whole course of the war. 
The consequence was that half the regiment was on the 
sick list from the exposure. 

To add to the discomfort, everybody was affected by 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


167 


the water. There were altogether about six thousand 
troops in camp on Maryland Heights, and they all had to 
get their supply of water from a single spring. This 
spring was located at the bottom of a precipitous rock, 
and the water was as clear as crystal, and looked all right. 
It also tasted as good as it looked. 

But it seems that the spring water was strongly im- 
pregnated with magnesia, or something of the sort, and 
the result was that every man in the whole camp was 
affected. The reader can well imagine what would be the 
result for a man to drink rochelle salts for breakfast, din- 
ner and supper ! Boiling it did not seem to make any dif- 
ference. Some of the boys went half a mile or so down 
to the river for their water, but that was not till after the 
character of the spring had been discovered. 

There was not a well man in the whole brigade, and 
the deaths were so numerous that it was scarcely a day 
that one did not see three or four funerals. Only one case 
in Company K resulted fatally, however — Martin V. B. 
Demarest. I was one of the pall bearers at his funeral. 

The coffins in which soldiers in the army were buried 
were made of pieces of the boards from the cracker boxes, 
nailed together. These were carried by poles being tied 
at the sides. A dead soldier wears no shroud. He is sim- 
ply dumped into the box in his everyday uniform, and 
nailed in. In the time of battle they don’t even bother 
with the boxes. 

The company is mustered, and the chaplain says a short 
service over the body. Then follows the parade to the 
grave, the lowest in rank marching first. The music is 
with the fife and drum, and the tune is always the same, 
the solemn Pleyal’s hymn, or “Dead March,” as it was 
called. At the grave six soldiers each fire three blank 
cartridges over the body, and it is buried. The remains 
are lowered and covered, and a piece of board from a 
cracker box or a barrel stave is marked with the name 
and regiment of the deceased. Then the mourners march 
back to camp while the “band” plays the liveliest tune in 
its limited repertoire. 

As John Ick remarked, “Dey blays a solemn hymtune 


i68 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


by de zemmytery, un den ein dance tune back, all de 
times.” 

We buried Mart Demarest at the time in a shallow 
grave beside the camp, but his body was afterward re- 
moved to the National Cemetery at Antietam, where it 
lies in a long row in Section n. 

No one can tell the sufferings we endured at Maryland 
Heights, until the arrival of our “shelter” tents, or “pup” 
tents, as the boys more commonly called them. These 
reached the camp on the 17th of October, along with an 
extra supply of blankets and clothing. 

Had the “pup” tents been given out to us at first, im- 
mediately after leaving home, we should have regarded 
them with scorn. But after the exposures we had suf- 
fered, they seemed veritable palaces. We immediately 
proceeded to make ourselves comparatively comfortable. 

A “pup” tent consists of two pieces of canton flannel 
or thick muslin about six feet square. On one side is a 
row of buttonholes and on the other side there are but- 
tons. These things were made by contract, and it was 
seldom that the location of the buttons corresponded with 
the buttonholes, but as most of the boys were provided 
with needles and thread they soon overcame that diffi- 
culty. Each soldier carries one section of a tent. When 
they go into camp the two are buttoned together, making 
a piece about twelve by six feet square. 

Two short poles, three or four feet high, are driven 
into the ground about six feet apart. The upright poles 
must have forks on the upper end. Across these is laid 
a horizontal pole. This forms the apex of the tent. The 
sides are fastened to the ground by pegs whittled from 
twigs. This makes a small tent the shape of an inverted 
“V” with nothing at either end. Generally the soldier car- 
ried in addition to the piece of shelter tent a rubber 
blanket and a woolen one. One of the rubber blankets 
served as one end of the tent. The other was laid on the 
ground, and covered with one of the woolen blankets. 
This formed the bed. The other blanket formed the “bed- 
clothes,” which were added to by a spare overcoat, if it 
was too cold. 

This tent was about the size of a dog house, which 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


169 


perhaps gave it the name of “pup” tent. Of course there 
was not room enough in them to stand up, or hardly to 
sit up, but they kept off the rain and wind and that was 
enough. To get in one of them the soldier had to get 
down on his hands and knees and crawl in like a dog. 
There was no protection to the lower end of the tent 
unless one of the soldiers carried an extra piece, which 
was sometimes the case. 

Don’t laugh at the “pup” tent. It was one of the most 
useful things ever invented for the comfort of the sol- 
diers. An old soldier would dispense with almost every- 
thing else before he threw away his piece of shelter tent, 
if it were in the inclement season of the year. In warm 
weather it did not matter so much. And the idea of two 
soldiers always bunking together probably begins to 
dawn on the mind of the reader. 

These two soldiers were always called partners, or 
rather, for short, “pards.” They were to each other as 
husband and wife, so far as a division of personal and 
“domestic” duties were concerned. 

But I will defer a fuller description of my pard till the 
next chapter. 


170 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
"my pard.” 


“My pard !” 

What a host of recollections that expression brings to 
the mind of every old soldier ! 

Nearly every soldier in the army had his “pard.” 
When the boys first enlisted the gathering into couples 
was a process of natural selection. It is innate in the 
human breast to have a chum. The Good Book says that 
it is not good for man to live alone. That of course re- 
ferred to Adam in the Garden of Eden, and meant that 
our original grandfather should have a wife. It would 
have been extremely inconvenient for the soldiers to be 
accompanied by wives, so they did the next best thing — 
selected a “pard.” 

No one ever knows how this is done. There seems to 
be a natural affinity that draws men together. It cannot 
be said that it is generally on account of a similarity of 
tastes, for experience proves that men who are of the 
most radically opposite character get along best together. 
The selection of a “pard” came at the first as naturally as 
mating of birds in spring. The longer they were in the 
army the more did the soldiers appreciate the convenience, 
indeed the actual necessity of this arrangement. 

It frequently happened that the original selection was 
not amicable, and there was a change. This in army par- 
lance was called a “divorce.” But these changes were 
not frequent after there had once been a satisfactory ad- 
justment of relations. Only by death or the absence from 
sickness or wounds of one of the parties was the relation- 
ship broken. 

The two soldiers constituted the “families” of the army. 
They divided the numerous little duties of a personal 
nature, aside from the regular military duties. They 



One of the cheekiest things I remember doing was to steal a chicken 
from a hen roost, and then go to the house and borrow 
an iron pot to put the chicken in. 


Page 171 





THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


171 

pooled their rations, took turns at cooking and other 
things, and altogether made themselves more comfortable 
and happy. 

On stopping for the night, one “pard” would hasten 
for the nearest rail fence or to the woods for twigs to 
make a fire, while the other would grab two canteens* and 
go for water; sometimes this necessitated a trip of a mile, 
for the flanks of the army might be a long distance from 
the stream that had determined the camping place. One 
of the “pards” would then take a short trip out into the 
country to see if he couldn’t “confiscate” a chicken or a 
stray pig, or even participate in the purloining of a calf. 
Not infrequently was a rabbit raised. If there was a 
granary or a potato mound handy, it afforded a valuable 
contribution to the larder. 

More than once these foragers came back with bird 
shot in their epidermis, which came from the guns of the 
irate grangers. I have felt the sting of small bird shot 
on more than one occasion. But the soldier did not mind 
a little thing like that. No matter what happened he 
would not let go of his “rations,” if he had been success- 
ful in getting anything. One of the cheekiest things I re- 
member doing was to steal a chicken from a hen roost, and 
then go to the house and borrow an iron pot to cook the 
chicken in and make a fricassee. 

And while one of the “pards” was putting up the “pup” 
tent the other would cook the supper. They before long 
become good cooks, too, and could make a variety of 
dishes out of their limited supply that would surprise a 
professional chef. ' 

Sometimes one of the “pards” was sick and tired out 
at the end of a day’s march, while the other was compara- 
tively fresh. Then the better one would care for his 
“pard” as if he were a brother, and do all the work. They 
stood by each other in sickness or trouble. They shared 
with each other the joys that came from surreptitious 
foraging, whether it be on some neighboring farm, or 
from the sutler’s tent. 

At night they shared each other’s blankets. Thus they 
kept warm. Soldiers always slept, whether in a “bunk” 
in winter quarters, or alongside a fire on the march, in 


172 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


that peculiar shape called “spoon fashion.’’ The reader 
will understand what that means. It was a convenient and 
practical arrangement except when one of the fellows 
desired to turn over on the other side. The other had to 
get around at the same time. 

When in the stillness of the night you heard some one 
shout out: 

“Attention — ’bout — face !” you knew that it meant that 
the two “pards” were about to turn over on their other 
sides to ease their positions. To keep warm in cold 
weather they snuggled and hugged each other in the most 
affectionate manner, and it was only the direst necessity 
that induced them to change their position if they once 
got comfortable. 

There were few men who did not have their “pards.” 
If a soldier had a foghorn voice when he snored, it was 
considered a legitimate cause for “divorce.” If one of the 
“pards” was less cleanly in his habits than the other, a 
bill of separation was in order. The “statutory grounds” 
from a soldier’s point of view was chronic disposition 
to play off and shirk in the performance of a due share 
of duty. That was an unpardonable sin. If a soldier ob- 
tained the reputation of being a shirk in this respect, no 
matter how good he might be otherwise, he was doomed 
to live and sleep alone, with all its discomforts. 

I was fortunate in the selection of my “pards.” The 
first, as before stated, was Orderly Sergeant Heber Wells. 
He was the same dignified gentleman that he is now, a 
man of the highest instincts and most upright moral char- 
acter, who never knew how to do a mean or dishonorable 
act. But Heber was the “orderly,” and that meant no end 
of work. He had to attend to all the roll calls, make out 
the reports and be in constant communication with the 
captain or other commanding officer in regard to the dif- 
ferent duty details. That kept him busy. By common con- 
sent the orderly sergeant is exempt from the ordinary 
menial service of camp life. So the most of the duties of 
a personal or domestic nature while he was “my pard” 
naturally fell upon me. 

Heber, however, was not “my pard” very long, for he 
was soon appointed to the position of second lieutenant 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i73 


of Company K. That meant his removal from the ranks 
to the officers’ tent, and a separation between us socially. 
The social distinction between a soldier and a commis- 
sioned officer is very great. The man with the commission 
belongs to the four hundred of the army, while the pri- 
vate is the workingman. If it were otherwise it would be 
detrimental to discipline, for there is no greater truism 
than “familiarity breeds contempt.” A servant or em- 
ployee has comparatively little respect for the master or 
employer who makes himself familiar. The high-headed- 
ness of officers in the army is galling at times, but it is 
necessary for discipline, and no amount of philosophizing 
can change this fact. 

My real “pard” was John Butterworth. John was an 
old employee of Daggers & Row, the bobbin turners. He 
told me all about wood turning, and I told him all about 
the printing business. He was married and worried a 
good deal about his wife, which was a pain that I had not 
to undergo. John was not an educated man, but he was 
possessed of an extraordinary degree of sound common 
sense. He knew how to cook everything that could be 
made of pork and beans and hard-tack. The only thing 
in which John was lacking was in card-playing. I taught 
him how to play a fair game of High-Low- Jack with the 
greasy old pack of cards we had, but could never teach 
him the mysteries of poker. He conscientiously sent home 
every cent of his pay that had not been mortgaged to the 
sutler, while I had no one depending on me and so liked 
to indulge in the elusive pleasures of “draw.” I found 
plenty of other fellows in the company, however, who 
could relieve me of my surplus cash, after a visit from the 
paymaster, with neatness and dispatch, and even go so 
far as to mortgage future months’ income. When credit 
in that direction was exhausted, blankets, overcoats and 
other goods and chattels went the way of all flesh fre- 
quently in consequence of overconfidence in the security 
of three nines or a five high full house. 

But other than in card-playing John Butterworth was 
an ideal “pard.” I never heard him “kick” over the per- 
formance of a duty. I think I sometimes took advantage 
of his perennial good nature, now that I come to look 


i74 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


back to those times. He would take the canteens and walk 
a mile for a supply of water, without a word of protest. 
He would gather twigs and branches for bedding, raid a 
rail fence afar off or do any other duty asked, without a 
word of complaint. 

And he was always good natured. I never saw his tem- 
per ruffled. He was a good soldier in every respect, al- 
ways ready to perform his duty with the minimum of 
“kicking,” whether it were a battalion drill, a battle, a 
long march or a turn at picket. And when he had after 
a day’s hard work succeeded in getting a few cedar 
boughs on a row of poles on the ground for a mattress, 
he would pull the blanket up to his chin and say : 

“Oh, I tell you, Joe, but isn’t this solid comfort? 
There’s many a poor fellow in the world who hasn’t such 
a nice, comfortable bed as this, eh ?” 

I agreed, but I frequently did so with the mental reser- 
vation that no one but a veritable Mark Tapley could ex- 
tract comfort and pleasure from such conditions. 

I shall ever remember “my pard” John Butterworth 
with feelings of satisfaction and pleasure, for he was a 
good, true friend, and there were not many men in the 
army so well favored as I was in the selection of a“pard.” 

Some of the other fellows were not so fortunate. There 
were continual quarrelings and bickerings and even fights 
as to who should do this and who that. But I think the 
most comical thing of all was that John Ick and Reddy 
Mahar should have been thrown together as “pards.” 

Such, however, was the case. It would have been diffi- 
cult to get two more incongruous characters together. 
One was German and the other Irish, and they were al- 
ways quarreling. They were unlike in everything imagin- 
able. Yet by some strange fate things happened so that 
they should bunk together. 

I remember on the occasion of the first night we had 
our “pup” tents. My “tent” was next to theirs. 

“Dot vas a devil uv a ting,” said Ick. “How was a 
fellow to get dot ting on the outside, alretty ?” 

“Oh, shut your blarney trap,” answered Reddy. “Wait 
awhile till we get the hang o’ this consarn. You see here 
are some holes ” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i75 


“Und here be de buttonholes, by jimminey.” 

“We will button thim together, that we will, begorra.” 

“We vill dot, ri-et away.” 

They buttoned the two sheets of the “pup” tent to- 
gether and spread it out on the ground. 

“That is the sheet, begorra,” said Reddy. Whereupon 
he spread it out and rolled himself up into it. 

After some altercation between the two as to the way 
to fix it, some of the other fellows showed them how to 
make a tent of the “sheet.” When it was completed the 
two got on their hands and knees and crawled in. I never 
knew what started the trouble, but in a moment everybody 
in that part of the camp was attracted by the bellicose 
talking between Ick and Mahar, and pretty soon they be- 
came involved in a regular rough-and-tumble fight. 

Now there isn’t much room in a “pup” tent to carry on 
a fight according to the rules of the Marquis of Queens- 
berry, or any other British nobleman. The fighters rolled 
over to the side of the little tent, and pulled it from its 
fastenings. The tent was on the side of a hill, and they 
naturally rolled downward. The further they rolled the 
closer were they wrapped in the folds of the “pup” tent, 
and they went down that hill as if they were done up in a 
muslin bundle, fighting and snarling as they went like a 
couple of cats in a bag. 

It was one of the most comical sights I ever saw. The 
tent was torn to tatters. But John Ick and Reddy Mahar 
didn’t want any tent that night. They slept in the guard- 
house. 

I also lost my tent that same night, but in an entirely 
different way, although fully as comical. 


176 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE ARMY. MULE. 

Before I proceed to tell how I lost my “pup” tent that 
night, let me introduce the reader to the army mule. 

There was nothing in the whole army that filled such 
an important and unique place in the prosecution of the 
war as the meek and docile mule. I use these adjectives 
with an unlimited degree of mental reservation. Appear- 
ances are often deceiving. There is nothing more plainly 
written in nature than the sign of meekness and docility 
embossed on the placid countenance of the mule. 

But woe be to him who places faith in the meek and 
innocent appearances of the army mule. Somewhere in 
the interior of the mule there lurks a latent energy, a pent- 
up supply of total depravity that would do credit to the 
arch enemy of mankind. No doubt the original delineator 
of Satan had been a victim of misplaced confidence in the 
hind legs of a mule, for otherwise what would have sug- 
gested the adoption of hoofs as the orthodox representa- 
tion of the devil’s feet? If the aforesaid original artist 
had put a paint brush on the end of Satan’s tail, instead 
of an arrow head, there would have been no room for 
doubt as to where he got his model. 

Horses were never used in the army except by the 
mounted officers and soldiers. The motive power of all 
warlike rolling-stock was the mule. The teams consisted 
of from six to ten mules, according to the depth of the 
mud. They were driven by one line, the same as they are 
now through the South. The driver does not sit on the 
wagon, but in a saddle on the wheel mule on the near side. 

I tried once to drive a mule team, but only succeeded 
in getting them into inextricable confusion. How a driver 
guides the team to the right or to the left as he desires, 
with only one rein, is a mystery in equestrian dynamics 


— 



Looking towards the noise you see a cloud of blue smoke arising. 

Page T77 




THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


177 


that I could never comprehend. The rein and the long- 
lashed whip had their uses to be sure, but they were in- 
significant factors in the art of driving a mule team. 

The secret of this science lay entirely in the language 
used by the driver, or “teamster,” as he was called in the 
army. In order to keep a mule team in motion it is neces- 
sary to carry a continual conversation. A man with a 
weak pair of lungs could never drive a team of army 
mules. Neither could a strict church member. The nature 
of the conversation is altogether inconsistent with ortho- 
doxy. I have heard of men who were good and pious, 
and refined and discreet in their language, being ap- 
pointed to the position of mule drivers. In such cases one 
of two things happens. Either the aforesaid teamster re- 
signed his position, or else he fell from grace to a depth 
of hopeless depravity that completely ruined all hopes of 
future happiness. 

I cannot describe the language a successful mule driver 
used to make his team start, and keep them going after 
they had once started. It would be entirely inconsistent 
with a work designed for general distribution. Besides, it 
would likely break down the press on which it was 
printed. Keeping within the confines of conservative re- 
spectability. I will merely remark that when the teamster 
wants to start the team he grasps the blacksnake whip 
in his right hand and the single rein in his left, gives the 
former a snap and the latter a jerk and opens the conver- 
sation : 

“Now, then, you ! Git up there, you 

! You ! , 

why don’t you pull? ! *******! 

! ! ! Gee Haw !” 

Looking toward the noise you see a cloud of blue smoke 
arising and the air is filled with a suffocating odor of sul- 
phur. Then you are conscious of a movement. 

“She starts, she moves. She seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel!” 

The long mule team with its cumbersome, convas- 
hooded baggage wagon has started. But don’t let the in- 
nocent reader imagine that the torrent of vocal sounds 


178 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ceases with the beginning of motion on the part of the 
team. No, indeed ! The teamster must keep right on. The 
moment he stops the team stops. The yelling is a part of 
the mechanism of the motive power of the establishment. 
It is the supply of steam that actuates the valves and 
pistons of the long-eared, brush-tailed, four-footed loco- 
motives. Thus it was that when night came, and the 
other soldiers were tired and fatigued in their limbs, the 
teamsters were played out in the muscles that move the 
vocal chords, the lips, and the bellows apparatus of the 
lungs. 

When night came, the mule took up the refrain where 
it was dropped by the teamster and generally kept it up 
till daylight. The reader has probably heard the peculiar 
music rendered by the mule. It is hard to express it in 
type,>ibut it is something like this: 

/ “Onk-a ! onk-a! onk-a! onk-a!” 

•The tone is a mezzo-soprano, alto, falsetto, basso com- 
bination, something like a bazoo. The exact intonation 
can only be given by a man in the last stages of diph- 
theria. I have heard some singers who could sing as well 
as a mule — but not many. 

Such is the natural music of the individual mule. Now 
the average army mule never took much stock in solos. 
When one began his bazoo, another answered, and a third 
chimed in, till at last there was a chorus of mule music. 
Other mules in other parts of the army would join the re- 
frain, till a cloud of discordant mule song arose to the 
ambient heavens and mingled with the twinkling stars. 
(That’s pretty bad, but I’ll let it go.) 

The soldiers soon got used to imitating the music of 
the mule with marvelous accuracy. In fact at times it 
was almost impossible to distinguish between the genuine 
article and the counterfeit. A mule would begin with his 
indescribable “Onk-a, onk-a,” and some camp wag would 
follow it up. Other mules (the four-legged ones, I mean) 
would join in the refrain, and so it would go, till the 
entire body, mules and men, would send forth a grand 
chorus that was limited only by the uttermost confines of 
the army. 

The mule choruses were indescribably comical, and 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


179 


sometimes disastrous, as they would discover the where- 
abouts of the army to the enemy under circumstances that 
were unpleasant. I have known one man to start up the 
mule chorus on a quiet night till it involved every bri- 
gade, division and corps within twenty miles. 

There was no accounting for the vagaries of the army 
mules. Sometimes they would be quietly crunching their 
fodder, when suddenly, without the least excuse or provo- 
cation, they would stampede. They did not care what 
direction they took. One would think after a hard day’s 
work they would take advantage of the opportunity to get 
a little rest. But a mule is never really tired. At least no 
matter what may have been the work of the day there is 
a reserve force equal to any possible or impossible extra 
emergency. And when the mules got loose and stampeded 
there was nothing to stop them except their own sweet 
and angelic will. 

I remember on one occasion in the middle of the night 
we were suddenly aroused from our sleep and ran for our 
lives under the idea that the enemy’s cavalry had made a 
charge upon us, when it was nothing but the mules stam- 
peding from a neighboring brigade. This same thing oc- 
curred many times, in different parts of the army, during 
the course of the war. 

There is no dependence on the friendship of the hind- 
leg of a mule. It may rest in quiescence for months, but 
finally, like a long smouldering volcano, it will break forth 
without any preliminary rumbling. It is no respecter of 
persons or rank, that hind-leg of the mule. The man who 
had carefully and faithfully stood by the mule in sickness 
and distress, in hunger and thirst, in the camp and on the 
march, after having been left unmolested so long that a 
feeling of confidence had been created, was often made 
the victim of the irresponsible viciousness of the hind-leg. 
No, never put your trust in the hind-leg of a mule, no 
matter how innocent it may look. 

In other respects is a mule deceptive. His eye is 
gentle and bland, but don’t trust it. The more gentle and 
bland, the more perfect the mask over the hidden stock of 
total depravity lurking within that silent but busy brain. 

With a horse you can tell something about his inten- 


i8o THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 

tions by the position of the ears. Ears slanted forward 
indicate alarm or extra watchfulness. Ears laid behind 
flat on the head indicate viciousness. A state of equine 
placidity is manifested by quiescent ears hanging loosely 
at the sides of his head. But not so with a mule. His ear§ 
generally hang senselessly beside his head. They are too 
heavy to move around to express emotion. So the driver 
cannot take warning of the feelings of the mule or his 
possible intentions for good or evil at any particular mo- 
ment from his ears. 

I doubt if the reader ever saw a dead mule. As many 
thousands as I ever saw alive, I can’t remember more than 
half a dozen dead ones. They did not often get near 
enough to the front in the ordinary course of the war to 
be shot in battle, and they seemed impervious to all the 
usual influences of climate or condition. The only thing 
that ever kills a mule is not a physical ailment, but mental 
trouble. 

I give this statement after full consideration of the 
gravity of the assertion, and reiterate that the main cause 
for fatality among mule folks is mental worriment — in 
other words, discouragement. When a mule for any cause 
becomes discouraged, his sphere of usefulness in this 
world has forever ended. He simply lies down, and with- 
out any unnecessary nonsense or fuss, quietly yields up 
the ghost. I never saw but one mule die. He tried in 
vain and faithfully to help pull a wagon out of the mire, 
but when he found that the task was impossible, he gently 
laid himself down and died. 

Ask any old army teamster if he ever knew a mule to 
die from any other cause than sheer discouragement. 

A word of sympathy and justice is due to the mule. All 
through his life he labors under the pain and disadvan- 
tage of a questionable ancestry. No matter how otherwise 
bright the surrounding circumstances may be, the mule 
always has within his breast the knowledge that he is an 
illegitimate offspring. While horses hold their heads high 
in the knowledge of a noble ancestry, the poor mule hangs 
his head in shame because his genealogical tree extends 
back only one generation; and in addition to that, the 
possibilities of future blood relations to honor his mem- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


181 


ory are so remote that it must forever be the source of 
carking care and mental pain. These things may possibly 
account for many of the vagaries of the mule that might 
otherwise be inexplicable. 

The appetite of the mule is insatiable and omnivorous. 
His digestion is an object of envy on the part of many a 
two-legged dyspeptic. To the mule antediluvian hard- 
tack crackers are but as mush. Like the Manhattanville 
goat he can digest anything short of coal scuttles. Old 
blankets, haversacks, newspapers, and leather belts form 
a sumptuous dessert for the mule ; and instead of nuts at 
the end of a banquet, he would any day prefer the ridge- 
pole of a tent. 

And that brings me back to the introduction of this 
chapter. 

Heber Wells had received a box from home, as before 
described. It looked like rain one night and he suggested 
that he keep the box under cover so that the rain would 
not spoil the remainder of the contents. I vacated, ancl 
bunked that night with Hank Van Orden. In the middle 
of the night I was awakened by the raindrops falling in 
my face, which I thought was strange, as I had gone to 
sleep fully protected by the “pup” tent. 

Getting up I was surprised to find I was outdoors. The 
“pup” tent had entirely disappeared with the exception 
of a small end of one of the white sheets. 

This was sticking out of the mouth of a mule ! 

The mule had eaten up our “pup” tent. 


182 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

GENERAL M’CLELLAN AND I. 

Yes, it was a fact. The mule had eaten up our tent. 

This was not an infrequent occurrence, for as said be- 
fore, an army mule liked a “pup” tent as well as a Har- 
lem goat does a tomato can or a flesh-colored living 
picture on a three-sheet poster. But it was something en- 
tirely new to us, and we marveled greatly. 

The worst of it all was, Hank Van Orden and I were 
out of a tent. We were outside in the cold, and the tent 
was inside the mule. It did not call for a moment’s re- 
flection to know that the further usefulness of that par- 
ticular tent, so far as we were concerned, was at an end. 
What use it might have been to the digestive apparatus 
of the mule is another thing. 

So we consulted Orderly Sergeant Wells, and he ad- 
vised us to consult the captain, or rather the acting cap- 
tain, Lieutenant Scott. The latter made out a requisition 
on the quartermaster for the respective two sections of 
“one shelter tent.” We went to the quartermaster, but he 
had run out of a supply of tents, and he made a requisi- 
tion on the brigade quartermaster and handed it to us. 
The brigade quartermaster sent us to the division quarter- 
master and the latter sent us to the corps quartermaster — 
all for one “pup” tent ! 

When we got to corps headquarters, we were kepj: 
waiting a long time for the convenience of the high and 
mighty official who had charge of the government cloth- 
ing and tailorshop for that particular branch of the army. 
There were a lot of other fellows from other regiments 
waiting their turns for various articles for which requisi- 
tions had been made. 

One of the men was a soldier from our own brigade, 
a member of the Twenty-seventh Indiana. We got talk- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 183 

ing together and among other things we told him about 
the mule eating up the “pup” tent. 

“Oh, that’s nuthin’,” said he. “Them air mewels are a 
curus critter, them are. Givvum a chance, ’n they’ll eat a 
hull muskit, bayonet ’n all. But the funniest thing of ’em 
all is to see ’em shoot a cannon from atop a mewel’s 
back.” 

“What !” I interrupted ; “shoot a cannon from a mule’s 
back? What are you giving us?” 

“That are the dead shure fac’,” was the Hoosier’s reply. 
“I’ve seen it done many a time. They jis’ strap the can- 
non — a howster (howitzer) is what they call ’em — on the 
mewel’s back. They load the guns up, turns the head o’ 
the mewel to the Johnny Rebs, and pulls the string.” 

“And shoot the cannon from the mule’s back?” I asked 
incredulously. 

“Shure’s you’re livin’. The muzzle of the cannon are 
p’inted to’ards the head o’ the mewel, and when the gun- 
ner gits ready for to shoot, the mewel he hangs down his 
head, ye know, and stretches out his four legs to the four 
p’ints o’ the compiass, like the legs o’ a sawbuck, ye know. 
That gives the mewel a solid footin’, d’ye see, so that the 
shootin’ o’ the cannon can’t knock the mewel over.” 

“How do they teach the mule to hold his legs that 
way?” I asked, “seeing the mule is such a stupid beast.” 

“They don’t teach him nothin’. He hes sense enough to 
l’arn himself. The fust time the cannon are shot from the 
back o’ the mewel, it jist knocks the mewel clean over. 
He luks around kind o’ scared like, a wonderin’ if that 
air cyclone struck any one else. Then he tries to shake off 
the cannon. When the mewel finds that the cannon are 
a tight hold on his back, he gits up and kind o’ concludes, 
d’ye know, that there have been some sort of a mistake 
like. The secon’ time he reckons, d’ye know, that there 
ain’t bin no mistake. And the third time, he squars off 
his four huffs.” 

“And don’t get knocked over, eh?” I asked. 

“That’s whare ye’re right, pard. And you oughter see 
the ’spresshun on the mewel’s eyes just then. He don’t 
say nothin’ but he jist looks as how he were saying to 
himself, ‘Golly, but I fooled ’em that time for shure.’ 


184 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


After that, every time the mewel hes sense enough for to 
stretch out his four legs and brace himself for the kick 
o’ the gun. It air a queer sight I kin tell you, pard, but it 
air as true as the gospil, as you’ll see for yourself, afore 
you are long in the sarvice. But come, here’s a chance for 
to get our accuterments.” 

Strange as this may seem, the story given us by the 
veteran from the Twenty-seventh Indiana was literally 
true. Small cannon were strapped to the backs of the 
mules and actually fired therefrom, and the conduct of the 
mule on such occasions was just as described. These 
mule guns were called “mountain howitzers,” and fired a 
shot of perhaps three pounds. Old soldiers have told me 
that the mules got so used to it that they did not stop 
nibbling at the twigs while the cannon was being shot 
from their backs ! 

Afterward I many a time saw a mule trudging along 
with a cannon strapped on his back, but I cannot say that 
I ever saw any of the shots fired. The cannon that I saw 
shot off were always on wheels. But these mule guns 
comprised quite an important adjunct to the army, and 
many a time, as said before, I have seen the animals 
clambering over the mountains thus equipped. It is a 
somewhat singular thing that I never saw any mention 
of this fact in any of the war books that I ever read, and 
doubtless the statement even now will be met with in- 
credulity on the part of some readers. But nevertheless 
I can assure them that it is absolutely true. 

After the usual delay and expenditure of red tape, 
Hank Van Orden and I got our new “pup” tents and 
made our way back to the regiment, arriving there just in 
time to be detailed to go on picket. 

I had never been on picket. I had been on guard, both 
around the camp and to guard wagons and cattle, but this 
was the first time I had been assigned to the dignity of a 
picket. 

The picket is “mounted” in about the same manner as 
the ordinary guards, and a guard mount was somewhat 
imperfectly described in one of the opening chapters of 
this story. In ordinary guard duty, the headquarters of 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 18$ 

the guard is a “guard house.” In picket duty it is a little 
different. 

The officer of the guard has charge of a certain number 
of men on picket duty. The men are divided up into 
squads under charge of sergeants. Each squad is com- 
posed of three times as many privates as there are posts 
to guard, and three corporals. The privates stand on their 
posts two hours, and then have four hours’ rest. “Two on 
the four off,” is the laconic way it was expressed in army 
parlance. 

The “first relief” serve from 9 to 11, the second from 
II till 1, and the third from 1 to 3, when the first relief 
comes on again, and so it goes throughout the twenty- 
four hours of the day and night. The corporals serve the 
same way, although they are not on post. They hang 
around the camp fire, ready to respond to any call from 
any of the men on guard. 

“Corporal of the guard, post No. 6,” is a call frequently 
heard. It may mean anything. It may mean that the 
picket is confronted by the enemy, or it may mean that he 
wants a drink of water. It is the corporal’s duty to wait 
upon him. For that reason, although a corporal was of 
higher rank than the private, the former was frequently 
dubbed by the name of “waiter.” 

The sergeant stayed at the headquarters of the “picket- 
post,” which usually consisted of nothing more than a 
good fire in some convenient place along the line. The 
sergeant had the command of the pickets of that particu- 
lar post, which might include a dozen or more places 
where the privates were stationed. The corporal reported 
to the sergeant, and if the problem presented was more 
than the sergeant could solve, he reported to the officer of 
the guard. 

The difference between guards and pickets is this: 
Guards are merely men stationed around some internal 
part of the army. Pickets are the men stationed on the 
extreme outer edge. In other words, there is nothing be- 
tween the pickets and the enemy — that is if there is any 
enemy in that particular direction. Whether there is or 
not, there is always supposed to be. 

I was on the second relief — that is, on duty from 1 1 to 


1 86 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i o’clock, and my first post was on the road along the 
Potomac River, at the foot of Maryland Heights and 
about half a mile up the river from opposite Harper’s 
Ferry. 

It was a beautiful day. The rain had cleared off and 
the skies were bright. Any one who has been there knows 
that it is one of the most picturesque spots in the country. 
I felt good and for the first time since my enlistment 
seemed to enjoy the experience of being a soldier. 

Here I was, I thought, on the outskirts of the Union 
army, with nothing between me and the Confederate 
army. I felt and enjoyed the responsibility of reflecting 
that so many men were under my watchful care. How 
faithful I would be. I imagined to myself how I would 
defend my post if any of the enemy’s pickets should make 
their appearance. I would defend it with my last drop of 
blood, of course. 

So I thought. If an enemy’s picket had made his ap- 
pearance I most likely would have suddenly decamped. 
But the enemy did not appear. As a matter of fact there 
was not a rebel within miles. How easy it is to be brave 
under such circumstances, although of course I did not 
know. 

I had been very carefully cautioned not to let a living 
soul pass my post without the countersign. The counter- 
sign that day was “Manassas.” I had of course heard of 
the tricks played on John Ick and the other greenies, but 
they couldn’t come any such game as that over me. Not 
much ! 

Pretty soon I heard a clanking of swords, and a large 
number of brilliantly uniformed mounted officers ap- 
proached. Who should the head one be but General 
George B. McClellan himself! 

I had seen General McClellan several times, and knew 
him by sight perfectly. As he approached he came up to 
me and I brought my rifle to a “present arms.” 

“Do you know who I am ?” he asked. 

“Of course I do,” I answered. “You are General Mc- 
Clellan.” 

“And these officers are members of my staff,” said the 



“ Do you know who I am ?” he asked. 

“ Of course I do,” I answered. “ You are General McClellan.” 

Page 186 














































































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 187 

general. “You must keep your musket at a 'present arms' 
while they all pass." 

“All right, general," I responded, and I kept my rifle 
sticking out in front of me according to the way the 
tactics called for a “present arms." 

I looked down to the next picket, another Thirteenth 
boy, and saw the same maneuver enacted there, and so on 
till the gay cavalcade had passed around the bend of the 
rocks. 

I felt highly honored with the idea of having pre- 
sented arms to General McClellan. What a story it would 
be to tell the boys at camp. 

What a story it was, indeed ! 

In less than half an hour after, the entire section of 
picket guarded by the Thirteenth’s boys were relieved and 
marched back to camp and locked up in the log hut called 
the “guard house," or prison. 

“What is this for?" we asked indignantly. “Who or- 
dered that we should be locked up?" 

“General McClellan," was the answer. 

“What for?" 

“For letting him and his whole staff pass you without 
the countersign !’’ 

“Well, I’ll be d — d !" said Lem Smith, one of my com- 
panions. 

And so said we all of us. 


i88 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE SUTLER. 

Well, wasn’t this a nice predicament? 

After all the instructions we had received! After all 
the fun we had poked at John Ick and the other fellows 
for being so green as to let officers pass them without giv- 
ing the countersign, to think that we — we, who con- 
sidered ourselves more than ordinarily well posted and on 
the alert, should be found guilty of the same stupidity, 
was too much altogether. 

Of all the chagrined and ashamed lot in the guard 
house that day I do not think there was a single one who 
thought for a moment of making any excuse for himself. 
We had been found remiss in one of the simplest duties 
of a soldier, and had been caught in a trap that was con- 
sidered only fit for greenhorns. And we had by this time 
begun to look upon ourselves as veterans, although in the 
service scarcely more than a month. 

But we ought to have known better, that’s sure enough. 
When a picket is given orders to allow no one to pass 
without the countersign, it means everybody, from the 
lowest private to the commanding general of the army, or 
even of the President of the United States. 

As for myself I was blinded by the magnificence of 
General McClellan’s staff. Or perhaps I imagined on the 
spur of the moment that of course the highest officer in 
the army could come and go as he chose, countersign or 
no countersign. Be it as it may, we all recognized the 
stupid blunder we had made the moment we were told 
why we had been arrested and by whose order. 

Not only the comparatively green pickets of the Thir- 
teenth New Jersey and some of the equally green New 
York regiment that was brigaded with us, had been 
caught in the trap, but also some of the members of the 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 189 

Twenty-seventh Indiana and Third Wisconsin, who cer- 
tainly ought to have known more, had been hauled in for 
the same offense. It seems that on the retreat from the 
Peninsula discipline had become somewhat relaxed, and 
it was a common occurrence for the guards and pickets 
to let the high officers pass without question, and such a 
thing as demanding the countersign from them, in spite of 
the strict orders that had been given, had never entered 
the minds of these veterans. So it was that they fell into 
the same trap. 

I cannot tell how many men were arrested that day for 
the same thing — there were a good many. It was only in- 
tended as a sort of object lesson to teach the men that or- 
ders were to be more strictly obeyed thereafter, particu- 
larly in regard to picket duty. So the punishment in this 
instance was nothing more than a reprimand, and a warn- 
ing not to be caught in the same trap again. We were 
kept in the guard house, however, for several hours be- 
fore we were thus disposed of, and during that time we 
were picturing all sorts of punishment for our remissness. 

It was a good lesson to us all, for never again were 
we caught in the trap of letting any one pass without the 
countersign when on picket, no matter who it might be. 

It was while we were at Maryland Heights that we 
were introduced to something new about army life — the 
“sutler.” 

If ever another war breaks out and I conclude to enter 
the service, I think I will be a sutler. At the first sign of 
a fight, the sutler mysteriously disappears and never turns 
up till the danger is over. Sutlers always got rich. They 
had a regular bonanza. Perhaps the majority of the read- 
ers of this do not know what the sutler was. 

In the midst of camp one day some men began to put 
up a big, square tent. It was larger than the tent occupied 
by any of the officers. It was high and commodious. 
Wagons began to be unloaded of boxes and barrels and 
mysterious-looking crates. They were taken inside and 
the flaps of the tents drawn, while the actors inside got the 
properties arranged for the performance. 

In the morning our eyes were dazzled with the layout 
The upper part of two sides of the tent were rolled up. 


190 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


displaying on a sort of counter the most tempting assort- 
ment of articles. There were pipes and tobacco galore, 
boxes of sardines and tomatoes, butter in hermetically 
sealed glass jars, ginger snaps and cakes, apples, potatoes, 
fresh bread, herring and mackerel, dried apples, primes 
and peaches, figs and dates, oranges, soda water and 
ginger pop, and a thousand other things that were likely 
to tempt the palates of soldiers. 

And there were various articles of wearing apparel of a 
finer texture than that furnished by Uncle Sam, such as 
better stockings, finer shoes and long-legged boots, leg- 
gings, rubber overcoats, handkerchiefs, writing paper and 
envelopes, and in fact no end of articles in the fancy 
goods line. 

Nearly every regiment in the army had its sutler. 
These things were sold to the officers and soldiers, and 
the trade was a good one, while the prices were some- 
thing outrageous. You had to patronize the sutler of your 
own regiment or go without, and pay whatever was 
charged for the articles desired. 

We were nearly all in need of tobacco, which was about 
the first thing sought for, and although it was villainous 
tobacco, half chips, it was better than smoking oak and 
laurel leaves, to which strait some of us had been reduced. 
The tobacco sold by the sutler was mostly known as the 
“Garibaldi” brand. It bore a gorgeous picture of the 
patriot in a red shirt and dark trousers, so he looked like 
a member of a volunteer fire department. Ask any old 
soldier if this description of the wrapper on the smoking 
tobacco used in the Army of the Potomac does not remind 
him of old times. The tobacco itself looked and tasted 
like pine sawdust, and had about as much flavor when 
smoked. 

“I’d like to have some of that tobacco,” said John But- 
terworth to me, “but I haven’t a cent.” 

“I’m busted myself, Jack,” said I, “but let’s go and see 
if we can’t stand him off for a paper of the tobacco.” 

Butterworth agreed to this proposition and we ap- 
proached the tent of the sutler. “Say, Mr. Sutler,” said I, 
“we fellows want some tobacco, and haven’t a cent. Do 
you trust ?” 


"1 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


191 

“Oh, yes,” was the reply. “You can have anything you 
want not exceeding the pay due you. You have been in 
the service for a month and consequently your credit is 
good for thirteen dollars.” 

“Say, Jack,” said I to my comrade, “this is a snap. 
Let’s lay in a stock. He’ll have a time to collect it, won’t 
he? There’s no justice of the peace or constable around 
here to make a levy, you know.” 

“There’s some trick about it,” replied Jack, “or he 
wouldn’t be so willing to trust. However, we will try it 
and see.” 

I chose a new briar pipe, price one dollar — anywhere 
else twenty-five cents. For a ten-cent paper of smoking 
tobacco the price was a quarter. Fifteen cents was 
charged for a plug of “niggerhead” chewing plug. I 
also paid fifty cents for about ten cents’ worth of paper 
and envelopes. 

Total, one dollar and ninety cents. 

The butter in the jars looked tempting. I hadn’t tasted 
butter for over a month. The butter was done up in little 
muslin bags, and these were placed in a glass jar, which 
was hermetically sealed. Altogether the butter was sup- 
posed to weigh one pound. 

“How much for the butter?” I asked, holding up the 
jar. 

“Twenty shillings,” I was informed. 

“What?” 

“Two dollars and a half.” 

“Two dollars and a half for a pound of butter?” 

“That’s the price,” said the sutler. And he explained 
the difficulty of getting butter to the front and caring for 
it in such a convincing manner that I became satisfied that 
two dollars and a half a pound was not only reasonable, 
but, under the circumstances, very cheap indeed. 

I invested, thus running up a bill of four dollars and 
ninety cents. It was the last pound of sutler butter that I 
ever bought, for it was a delusion and a snare. I guess it 
was nothing but colored lard — and very stale lard at that. 
We simply couldn’t eat it — and when a thing is so bad 
that a soldier cannot eat it it must be bad indeed. 

John Ick was disgusted with the sutler because he 


ig2 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


could not supply his demand for “ein glass lager.” Reddy 
Mahar pleaded in vain for a little of “the old stuff,” for 
in the rear end of the tent could be seen some bottles 
marked “Bourbon.” The proper brand of whiskey in 
those days was “Bourbon.” Such a thing as “Rye” was 
hardly ever heard of. 

But the sutler could not sell intoxicating liquor to the 
enlisted men. It was against the regulations. These regu- 
lations did not apply to the commissioned officers, and 
some of them took advantage of the exceptional privilege. 
Lieutenant Scott was good to me in that respect, how- 
ever. I did not take much to whiskey, but enjoyed the op- 
portunity to get it because it was “forbidden fruit.” 

Not infrequently, with all these precautions, one would 
see a drunken soldier. How he got his liquor was always 
more or less of a mystery, but generally on such occa- 
sions there would be found a bottle or so missing from 
the sutler’s tent. 

I thought the sutler was very generous in giving the 
soldiers so much trust, and often wondered how he could 
collect all his bills. But I found out at the first pay day. 
We were getting two months’ pay — twenty-six dollars. 
When the paymaster called me up for my pay I signed 
my name at the edge of the big sheet of paper and the 
clerk handed me eight dollars. 

“How’s this?” I asked. “Here’s only eight dollars, in- 
stead of twenty-six.” 

“That’s right,” answered the paymaster, with an im- 
perious wave of the hand. “We have deducted your bill 
on the sutler, amounting to seventeen dollars and twenty- 
five cents.” 

Ah, I had discovered how the sutler collected his bills 
— why he was so willing to trust the soldiers. He had the 
bulge on us, sure enough. That was a nice arrangement, 
wasn’t it? 

“But hold on, major,” said I, after making a hasty men- 
tal calculation. “You say my bill at the sutler’s was sev- 
enteen dollars and twenty-five cents, which amount, taken 
from twenty-six dollars, leaves eight dollars and seventy- 
five cents, and you have only given me eight dollars. That 
is seventy-five cents short.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i93 


“Haven’t time for explanations,” answered the auto- 
crat. “Ask your captain. Campbell” (calling the next 
name on the roll). 

“You see,” said Lieutenant Scott, explaining the mat- 
ter to me afterward, “the paymaster has no change and 
can only pay the even dollars. The seventy-five cents will 
go to your credit on the next pay roll.” 

That was the rule. The sutler came first, the odd 
change next, and the soldier got what was left. The 
cash I received for my first two months’ service in the 
army was accordingly eight dollars, four dollars a month, 
a dollar a week — and found ! 


194 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

NEWS FROM HOME. 

We all made up our minds that the sutler would not get 
such a large proportion of our pay the next time, but 
these good resolutions did not amount to much when the 
time came. And let me interpolate that a soldier’s re- 
muneration was never referred to as “wages” or “salary,” 
or any other term than “pay.” That was the only word 
ever used in connection with the compensation received 
from Uncle Sam for our services. 

As said, the good resolution not to let such a large pro- 
portion of our “pay” fall into the hands of the sutlers 
was easier made than kept. Mild as it was, it was the 
only source of dissipation within our reach. The bill of 
fare provided by the government was very limited, and in 
a short time it became extremely monotonous. There was 
scarcely a day that there was not a demand for some little 
luxury or convenience from the sutler’s tent. 

With us young fellows this drain on our income did 
not amount to much, but married men, who had families 
at home who needed every cent that could be sent to them, 
had to be more economical. And the people at home 
probably never had the slightest comprehension of the 
privation and discomfort that their husbands and fathers 
went through in order to save every cent. That was 
patriotism from a domestic economy point of view. 

There were some occurrences at Maryland Heights that 
filled us with indignation, in the shape of the resignations 
of several of the commissioned officers. A private soldier 
was enlisted and bound fast “for three years unless sooner 
discharged,” but the commissioned officers had the priv- 
ilege of resigning and going home whenever they saw fit, 
although it was generally regarded as arrant cowardice 
for one to resign on the eve of an impending battle. In 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


i95 


such cases, however, as a general rule, the resignation 
would not be accepted. 

But there were several resignations among the officers 
at Maryland Heights. They “knew when they had 
enough” and “wanted to go home.” So did we privates, 
but we couldn’t “go home.” Of course all the resigning 
officers had “urgent business” or “sickness in the family” 
that required their immediate presence in the vicinity of 
the domestic hearthstones, but an altogether different in- 
terpretation was placed on these resignations by the aver- 
age soldier. 

Sometimes, under very extraordinary emergencies, a 
private could get a short leave of absence or “furlough,” 
to go home, but one had to have a “pull” to obtain this in- 
estimable privilege. It is easier for a camel to go through 
the eye of a sewing-machine needle than it is for a private 
soldier to get a furlough. 

To their credit be it said, there were no resignations in 
Company K. We had at that time but one commissioned 
officer — Lieutenant Scott — and he stuck by us. He was 
daily expecting his commission as captain and that was 
another incentive for his remaining. But the members of 
Company K were not slow in expressing their opinions 
of those officers that did resign. Of course our friend 
John Ick bobbed up serenely on this occasion. 

“Dey vas a lot of d— d cowyards,” he said. “Dey gets 
us here by the front alretty, und den dey goes back by us 
all the times, by jimminey. Dey drives us likes ein lot o’ 
sheeps by the schlaughter haus, und then dey runs avay. 
Dey vas cowyards!” 

The juxtaposition of “cowyards” and “slaughter 
houses” was a better pun than John had any idea of. But 
that is what he said, and he expressed the sentiments of 
a good many others. These adverse comments went to 
such a length that there was a warning that if the boys 
did not keep their mouths shut on the subject they would 
likely be disciplined for disrespect toward their superior 
officers — an unpardonable sin, by the way. 

At Maryland Heights we began to get our first mail 
from home. It is impossible to describe the delight and 
satisfaction to a soldier to receive letters from home. I 


196 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


received two. One was from my uncle, and another from 
— well, no matter. 

I also received a copy of the Guardian — the paper on 
which I had worked — the one containing the particulars 
of the battle we had recently passed through. Then for 
the first time we learned the name of the battle — “An- 
tietam.” We had always imagined that it would be called 
“the battle of Sharpsburg,” because it was near that vil- 
lage. But the Northern newspapers and historians named 
it after the creek — Antietam — and so it has been known 
ever since — throughout the North. 

The Southern people named it by its natural and more 
proper appellation, it seems to me. They have in their his- 
tories no “battle of Antietam.” With them it is “the battle 
of Sharpsburg.” The theory adopted by the Northern 
historians was an old one. Cities and towns may be de- 
stroyed or otherwise disappear, running streams never. 
The name of the location of a great event is accordingly 
taken from some permanent landmark or watermark. 
Hence, “Antietam,” from the creek, rather than “Sharps- 
burg,” from the village. 

I remember the articles about the battle in the Guardian 
distinctly. It had a lot of flaring headlines and a long list 
of the killed and wounded. I forget whether it was in 
this battle or some other one that I was reported among 
the killed. I had the pleasure (?) of reading my own 
obituary at least once in my life. I often wonder when 
the genuine article is published if it will be so compli- 
mentary ! 

It afforded an intense pleasure to read that paper from 
home. The local news was specially interesting. I saw 
that more of my old companions had subsequently enlisted 
in the army, in other regiments, and I began to wonder if 
there was anybody left at home at all. But I looked in 
vain among the list of those who had gone to the war for 
the names of those patriotic orators who had made the 
speeches from the steps of the old bank building on Main 
Street. 

Nearly all the boys had received letters from home. 
Some of them contained bad news, telling of trouble or 
sickness, and these made the recipients very down-hearted 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


197 


and unhappy. I was more than ever glad that I had no 
one dependent upon me. The letter from my uncle told 
of the trouble he had to get out the Guardian , now that all 
his printers had gone to the war. He said that he had 
even to put one of the girls at work on making up the 
forms. I showed the letter to Davy Harris. 

“Joe,” said he, “do you remember how I kicked at being 
called up from the job room to make up the forms when 
Joe Mosley was sick? Well, I wouldn’t kick at such an 
order now, you bet. What fools we were to leave that 
job and come here. But there’s no use crying now. We 
are in for it, and that settles it. So Joe Mosley has en- 
listed too, has he?” 

“So it seems,” I replied. “Guess he will find it a little 
different from setting advertisements and making up the 
forms, eh?” 

The conversation was interrupted by an order to fall 
in for drill. 

And, by the way, the drilling began to be incessant, 
and it was very tiresome. The boys were all more or less 
weakened from the effects of that magnesia spring, and 
the exposure of army life had begun to have other effects 
upon us. So far as I was concerned, this sort of life 
rather agreed with me. I had always had a rather indoor 
occupation — at least for some years before I enlisted — 
and the outdoor air was building me up. There is nothing 
like the fresh outdoor air for health, even with all its 
discomforts. 

With drills and picket duties we were kept busy during 
the time we were at Maryland Heights. And so it ran 
on till the 26th of October, when we were informed that a 
new general had been assigned to the command of our 
corps — General Henry W. Slocum. He was to visit us 
the following day, and be formally “introduced.” In 
other words, we were to have a “general review.” 

Later in the evening we were thrown into a state of still 
furtii." excitement. We were told to have our uniforms 
neatly brushed, our guns cleaned to the highest pitch of 
perfection, and the brass work on our accoutrements pol- 
ished till we could see our faces in them. 


198 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“ What’s up ? What does all this mean ? ” I asked Ser- 
geant Wells. 

“Why, don’t you know?” he replied. “The president 
is coming.” 

“The president? What president?” I asked, not taking 
it in. 

“The President of the United States, of course.” 

“You don’t mean to say that President Lincoln is com- 
ing to see us?” 

“Yes, he will be here to-morrow to review us.” 

I hastened down through the company to spread the 
news. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


199 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

I SALUTE THE PRESIDENT. 

In the meantime Lieutenant James G. Scott had re- 
ceived his commission as captain, “vice Captain Irish, 
killed,” as the rolls had it. William H. Miller, formerly a 
member of the Second New Jersey, had been appointed as 
first lieutenant in Scott’s place, and soon after Heber 
Wells, the orderly sergeant, was appointed second lieu- 
tenant, while our old friend “Hank” (Henry Van Orden) 
was made orderly sergeant. 

Similar changes had been made in the other companies. 
In fact so many changes had been made that the various 
companies were practically newly officered; but on the 
whole it was an improvement, for we were getting down 
to the practical hard pan only reached by service and 
experience. At the time mentioned in the preceding chap- 
ter therefore the Thirteenth Regiment was getting down 
to a pretty good shape. The men had received consider- 
able drill and knew the difference between “present arms” 
and “guard mount.” 

I appreciated the fact that I had even made some 
progress myself. I could shoot off a rifle without shut- 
ting my eyes, and in the marksmen’s drill I had on at least 
one occasion succeeded in hitting the edge of a six-foot 
target. I felt if I continued to improve at this rate, it 
would soon be dangerous for a rebel to stand in front of 
my gun if it should go off, and that if I only got a chance 
at the enemy the war would soon be ended by the total 
annihilation of all the fellows on the other side. 

I had also received a sort of a promotion. It was not a 
promotion in a strictly military sense, but it was a peg 
higher anyhow, and it involved certain enviable perquisites 
and privileges. In other words, I had been dignified by 
the appointment of “company clerk.” 


200 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The clerk of a company makes out the different and 
apparently never-ending rolls and reports connected with 
the company. He is practically the captain’s private sec- 
retary. He is most of the time during the day in the 
captain’s tent, and his associates are more the officers than 
the enlisted men. The advantages of being a company 
clerk consisted in being excused from squad, company and 
other drills, and from guard duty, police duty and other 
menial service. It did not excuse him from regimental or 
brigade drill, nor from picket duty, inspections or reviews. 
There was no excuse from these except for those on 
absent assignments or detached service. 

But the position of company clerk is altogether an 
enviable one, and much sought after. I received the ap- 
pointment because I could write a good hand (those who 
see my writing now would never believe it) and because I 
was possessed of a certain degree of general intelligence 
that qualified me for the position. The place, by bringing 
the incumbent into close connection with the officers, gave 
him the advantage of certain important information ahead 
of the general rank and file, which sometimes was a good 
thing. 

As said, we had had a new general assigned to the com- 
mand of our corps, General Henry W. Slocum. Our 
other general, Mansfield, had been killed at the battle of 
Antietam. 

“What sort of a man is this Slocum?” I asked of a 
member of the Second Massachusetts whom I met that 
morning. 

“He’s a rip-snorter,” was the answer. “He is a fight- 
ing man from ’way back. I tell you we will catch it now 
when we get into a fight.” 

“Mine Gott und himmel,” said John Ick, who stood 
near at the time. “Ish he a more by dot schlaughter haus 
yeneral by dot under feller? I no likes dot. Now we 
gets kilt sure enough, alretty.” 

And if it be true that General Slocum was a harder 
fighter than General Mansfield, it did not suit me either, 
not much. A man of peace would have been more to my 
liking. But we were in for it, and what was the use? 
The government did not consult the private soldiers as 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


201 


to who should be their commanding officers. Perhaps if 
it had we would have had better ones sometimes. This 
was not the case with General Slocum, of course, for a 
better general never lived. 

As General Slocum died only a short time since, and his 
portraits were published by many papers in connection 
with that event, most people are familiar with his appear- 
ance. They will remember his white hair and white mus- 
tache, and a generally blond appearance. He was an 
entirely different-looking man in the army. 

He was, of course, much younger then. His hair was 
a dark brown, and he wore a full beard, trimmed short. 
Most of the officers wore full beards in the war, not so 
much on account of appearance, but because it was sup- 
posed to be a protection against sore throats. But the 
principal reason was that the barber shops were not 
handy and the opportunity for regular shaving was not 
possible. I remember General Slocum as he looked then 
because I had a specially advantageous opportunity to see 
him close by._ 

It was my good fortune to be detailed for guard that 
day, and my still better fortune to be one of the men on 
guard at General McClellan’s headquarters. It was a 
scene of great activity and magnificence. Extra tents, 
of a large size, had been set up, one of which was a sort 
of lunchroom, where a table was set that contained a 
marvelous collection, considering the situation. There 
were bottles galore, and numerous baskets of champagne. 
The idea of such a thing as champagne and glass goblets 
to drink it from struck me with wonderment, out there 
“in the front.” ♦ 

Mounted orderlies and aids were galloping hither and 
thither with preparatory orders, and the number of hand- 
somely uniformed officers wearing the stars of a general 
on their shoulder-straps was something wonderful. Many 
of the officers were from the ornamental detachment on 
duty at Washington, whose uniforms looked as if they 
had just come from the tailor’s shop, and whose gold lace 
and bullion trappings were like those worn by the jplitia 
now. This was something oddly contrasting with the 
dull and dingy appearance of the uniforms and equip- 


202 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ments of the officers who had been in active service in the 
front. 

To a soldier who had just been through hard marches 
and battles there was a feeling of intense disgust for 
these “play soldiers,” as they were called. It is said that 
a man with a fur-lined overcoat is always tantalizing to a 
laborer in overalls. The same sort of a feeling seemed to 
overcome me and my companions at the sight of these 
gorgeously attired “West Pointers,” with their clean and 
speckless uniforms, their bright golden trappings, and 
their airish eyeglasses. 

Soon there began to arrive some coaches. How funny 
they looked — coaches in the army, where the only vehicles 
are mule-drawn baggage wagons and cavalry saddles. 
But funnier still was the sight of some handsomely 
dressed ladies getting out of the carriages. 

Now it may seem strange, but with the exception of a 
vivctndiere in one of the regiments of our corps, none 
of us had seen a woman since we passed through Wash- 
ington. Every man seemed to straighten himself up with 
dignity at the unwonted sight. I really don’t know 
whether those ladies were handsome or not, but to our 
eyes they resembled angels. The bright ribbons, the 
dainty, flower-decked hats, the pretty wraps, and above all 
the bright parasols, lent an addition of color to the sur- 
roundings such as we had not seen in many a long day. 

These women were the wives and daughters of the dis- 
tinguished officers and officials of the government. 
Harper’s Ferry is not such a long distance from Washing- 
ton and the visit for them was a nice little excursion trip. 
There were no rebels within miles, so that there was no 
earthly danger, but I imagined those women many a time 
after boasted about their having been “clear to the front” 
of the army during the war. 

The last of all to arrive were the commanding generals 
of the different corps, and finally General McClellan him- 
self with his brilliant staff. 

With these was the President of the United States, and 
some members of the cabinet, all in citizens’ clothes. 

How plain and funereal those plain black suits looked 
after having seen nothing but blue uniforms for so many 



He never noticed me no more than if I had been a wooden Indian in 
front of a cigar store. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


203 


weeks ! It must be admitted that the contrast was rather 
in favor of the soldiers — or rather the officers. The presi- 
dent wore a silk hat, which looked woefully out of place. 

With an imperious air some of the staff officers led the 
way into the collation tent, followed by the president and 
the other civilians. After them came some privileged 
army officers, and some of the ladies. If I remember 
rightly, however, most of these remained outside watching 
with interest the gathering army on the parade ground. 

As President Lincoln passed me, on my post at the 
entrance of the tent, I brought my rifle to a “present 
arms” with a click and a snap. I purposely endeavored to 
attract his attention, but he never noticed me no more 
than if I had been a wooden Indian in front of a cigar 
store. 

The distinguished party remained in the tent for some 
time. I could hear the popping of corks and clinking of 
glasses, the lively talk and the merry laughter. Ah, 
thought I, it’s fun for them. Little do the most of them 
appreciate what real war is. I thought this way in my 
innocence. I did not appreciate then the worry, the 
anxiety and sleepless, troubled days and nights that were 
being passed by those who directed the war. 

Others than soldiers fight. There are heroes who never 
shot a gun or wore a uniform. 

In the meantime the vast army had got into position 
for the grand review. The different regiments and bri- 
gades, divisions and corps, were drawn up in line on the 
field, which from the elevated position we occupied we 
could see spread out like a cosmorama. It did present a 
beautiful sight, the straight lines, the thousands of sol- 
diers, the glittering bayonets, the bright flags, all spread 
out there on the plain below us. 

Then the generals commanding the different corps 
mounted their . horses and, accompanied by their staffs, 
galloped to their respective commands and General Mc- 
Clellan and his staff, accompanied by the president and 
his associates, and followed by many of the ladies, went 
out to the place selected for them where they could have 
a good view of the maneuvers. 


204 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A PRESIDENTIAL REVIEW. 

“Attention ! Present arms !” shouted General Mc- 
Clellan. 

“Attention ! Present arms !” repeated the various corps 
commanders. 

“Attention ! Present arms !” reiterated the com- 
manders of divisions, and the commanders of the bri- 
gades, and the commanders of regiments, and the com- 
manders of companies, until the order had gone down to 
the furthermost soldier in the army. 

That is the way orders were given. It was manifestly 
impossible for one man’s voice to reach the whole army, 
so that the command went down in sections, according to 
rank, like the signal corps wig-wagged their messages 
from hilltop to hilltop. 

In an instant the entire army stood at a “present arms,” 
and General McClellan turned, and, with a graceful sweep 
of his sword, addressed the president : 

“Your excellency, the parade is formed.” 

I don’t know what the president said in reply, for it 
was in too low a tone. But he at once mounted a horse, 
as did those with him, and proceeded to move off. In the 
meantime the soldiers were ordered to bring their muskets 
from the uncomfortable position of a “present” to a 
“shoulder” arms. According to the tactics then in use a 
“shoulder” was a “carry.” 

President Lincoln, General McClellan and their brilliant 
cavalcade of staff officers then galloped down toward the 
vast army. 

I will never forget the appearance of the president on 
that occasion. He was mounted on an enormous stallion, 
and sat in a Mexican saddle that was about four times too 
large for him. I think without exception he was the most 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


205 


awkward-looking man on horseback that I ever laid eyes 
upon. He was over six feet in height, slim as a rail, and 
naturally ungainly. On horseback he bobbed around in 
the saddle in the most uncomfortable sort of way. 

His long black coat tails streamed behind comically, 
and his “plug hat” looked as if it would bob off with every 
jump the horse made. The officers rode like centaurs, as 
if they were a part of their steeds themselves, which made 
the contrast all the more startling. To tell the truth, I 
was in mortal terror that the president would tumble off 
his horse. 

But he didn’t. The bands played “Hail to the Chief,” 
according to the orthodox rule, and the president, General 
McClellan and the big staff of gold tinseled officers can- 
tered down the line and back on the rear, and along the 
front of the next line and around that, until the magnates 
had seen the front and rear of every line of troops in the 
vast army. 

Then they returned to their starting point, called the 
“reviewing stand” and, still mounted, stood there for the 
second part of the performance, the “marching in review.” 

To the private soldier this is one of the most arduous 
and exasperating of all drills. The men march around 
the reviewing stand in what is called “company front.” 
That is, they march by flank, and the idea is that when the 
different companies pass the reviewing stand, each one 
shall present a perfectly straight line. 

On level ground and in single ranks this was compara- 
tively easy. In the front, in two ranks, with the soldiers 
treading on each other’s heels and over uneven ground — 
perhaps an old plowed cornfield or something of that sort, 
with intercepting rocks and stumps, bushes, hillocks, and 
furrows — it became almost an impossibility. 

But the army on this occasion did remarkably well. 
From the position I occupied, as one of the guards at 
headquarters, I could see the whole thing as plainly as 
the president himself. Then for the first time I got an 
idea of what a big army it was. I forget the exact num- 
ber in that particular review. All that I remember is that 
it was something less than one hundred thousand. 

What impressed me most was the number of cavalry- 


206 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


men and artillerymen, who came past after the infantry or 
foot soldiers. Then came the ambulance corps and the 
hospital brigade. 

Ugh ! This made the cold shivers run down my back. 
It reminded me of the unpleasant and grewsome expe- 
rience I had that night after the battle of Antietam. 

The grand spectacle was over at last, the assembled 
army broke up into its integral parts, and the president 
and general officers returned to the headquarters. 

As the president passed me for the third time that day, 
I again brought my musket to a “present arms” with a 
more vigorous movement than ever — so much so, in fact, 
that it attracted Mr. Lincoln’s attention, and he turned 
and looked at me. 

Although I had really intended to attract his attention, 
in order to see if he would remember that morning in the 
capitol rotunda well enough to recognize me, yet when I 
had succeeded in getting him to look in my direction, I 
was so startled that I nearly dropped my rifle. 

He paused and gazed at me intently, as if trying to 
remember something. I shook like a leaf in the wind. To 
say that I was embarrassed is no name for it. The inci- 
dent was so marked as even to attract the attention of 
some of the officers, and they looked at me as if I was a 
culprit, for I suspect that they thought that I had been 
doing something wrong and had astonished the President 
of the United States. 

I therefore felt considerably relieved when Mr. Lincoln 
renewed his steps and disappeared in the tent. He evi- 
dently did not recognize. me, and yet my face had appar- 
ently awakened some recollection. 

The corps commanders then came up and were formally 
introduced to the president and other dignitaries and to 
the ladies. The clinking of the glasses was renewed, and 
it was still in progress when the “second relief” came 
along and another soldier took my place. 

The president did recognize me, but could not at the 
time place me. The proof of this will appear later. If I 
could have had recognition from him then and there it 
would have been of immense advantage to me. I had 
been in the army long enough already to appreciate the 
advantage of “a pull.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


207 


We had become quite familiar with some of the adjoin- 
ing regiments of our brigade. Frequent calls and visits 
were interchanged between the men from different States 
at odd hours. That night I spent some time in the camp 
of the Third Wisconsin. 

“Things look ticklish/’ said one of them. “That re- 
view by the president warn’t for nothing.” 

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. 

“Well, you see, pard,” said the Wisconsin man, “when- 
ever we are reviewed by the big guns, that means to see if 
the army is all right for a scrimmage. I never knowed 
there to be a review by the head general that we didn’t 
have to git afore long. And when the president comes to 
see how things are, that means more than something or- 
d’nary. I tell you there’s goin’ to be a scrimmage, and 
afore long at that.” 

“Why,” I replied, probably in the effort to console my- 
self, “there are no rebels anywhere around here. No 
enemy, no fight. We are not likely to have a battle with 
ourselves, are we?” 

“Don’t you fret yourself, pard,” he replied ; “the rebels 
may not be very near, and they may not be likely to come 
our way. But what’s the matter with our going to hunt 
’em up. That’s what we’ll likely do afore long. Mind 
what I say, pard, we won’t be here long. You can bet 
your next month’s pay on that.” 

That wasn’t very consoling. We had scarcely recov- 
ered from the effects of one battle, and that ought to be 
enough for some time. In fact, I had had enough to last 
me for the remainder of the war. 

It struck me as a very inconsiderate proposition on the 
part of the government that we should put ourselves to 
any trouble to hunt up the enemy so long as the enemy 
was not bothering us. What was the sense of seeking 
trouble? If the rebels came our way, all right. We 
would fight them. But so long as they did not molest 
us, what was the odds? Why should we go out of our 
way to get into trouble? So far as I was concerned I 
was perfectly willing to stay right there on Maryland 
Heights for the whole “three years unless sooner dis- 
charged.” 


208 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The readers will perhaps get the impression that I was 
no fighter. Well, maybe not. But I can say one thing. 
I was not the only one. There were lots of other fellows 
who thought and spoke the same way that I did. 

T wo days later we received orders to get ready to break 
camp. 

It immediately struck me that the Wisconsin veteran 
was right. That review meant something. The army 
had been found in fine condition and ready for another en- 
gagement. We were going to hunt up the enemy and 
give him another tussle. 

Some of the more restless men were glad of a change 
of some sort, but I would have preferred to have remained 
just then at Maryland Heights. 

It was not thought that we would move for several days, 
but on the night of the 29th of October (this was in 1862, 
remember) at about 9 o’clock, an order was whispered 
around camp hurriedly to fill in for a march. It was 
also reported that the rebels had made their appearance at 
a spot a good deal nearer than any of us imagined. 

Certainly there must be something important on hand 
or the start would not have been made at that late hour of 
the night. 

But we were all surprised, after we had gone some 
distance, to find that we were retracing our steps, and 
were marching back over the same roads that we had come 
when we came from the battlefield of Antietam. 

Was there going to be another fight on the same battle 
ground ? 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


209 




CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

CAPTAIN IRISHES BROTHER. 

Before leaving Maryland Heights, however, let me 
stop to relate one more incident that happened while we 
were in camp there. 

Captain Irish’s watch, sword, papers and other effects, 
taken from the body by Sergeant Heber Wells, were still 
in Wells’ possession. Heber was with the regiment at 
Maryland Heights, and Lewis Irish, the captain’s brother, 
had to make a journey thither to get them. 

Visitors to camp could not come and leave as they chose 
in those days, but were obliged to wait for circumstances. 
Frequently they were compelled to wait in camp several 
days longer than they wanted to. 

Lewis Irish was a nervous, timid sort of a man. The 
deadliest weapons he had ever handled were a needle 
and a pair of shears. He was a man of peace and had an 
inborn abhorrence and horror of everything appertaining 
to war. 

As a result he was in a state of nervous trepidation 
all the time he was out at the front, although as a matter 
of fact there was really no more danger there than there 
was in the staid old village of Hackensack, where he 
resided. 

Mr. Irish was in a constant fear that the rebels would 
pounce upon the camps at any moment. One mebmer of 
the family had been killed. He was the only remaining 
brother. He didn’t want the family name to become 
extinct ! 

At every unusual movement Mr. Irish would start. A 
stray shot from some soldier cleaning his gun would 
put him in a quiver. When, the drum beat for reveille, 
guard mount or sick call, foe WQUld apparently imagine 


210 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


that it was the long roll for the whole army to fall in line 
of battle. 

While there Lewis Irish “bunked” with Heber Wells, 
of course. It was before the “pup” tents had arrived, and 
the boys had rigged up all sorts of outlandish huts “to 
keep off the dew,” as they expressed it. 

Heber’s hut, like many others, was made of poles and 
cedar boughs. A couple of poles with notches on the 
ends, like clothes poles, perhaps six or seven feet in length, 
were driven into the ground about ten or twelve feet apart. 
Across these was laid a ridgepole. From this, and slant- 
ing down to one side, the other end resting on the ground, 
were laid a lot of other poles, as close together as possible. 
This formed the framework for a rude sort of shed. The 
roof was composed of cedar branches and boughs, and the 
ground was covered with the same thing for a bedding. 
This arrangement was of course perfectly useless in case 
of rain, but it sheltered the occupants from the wind and 
was more comfortable than sleeping out of doors entirely. 

The occupants crawled in as far as possible when going 
to bed, so that their heads were near the side where the 
roof came down to the ground. There wasn’t much space 
over the heads of the sleepers. When they wanted to 
get out they had to carefully back out before attempting to 
rise. 

It was this peculiar characteristic of the improvised shed 
or hut that caused the mishap and scare that Mr. Irish 
sustained the last night he was in camp. It was quite a 
cool night, and he and Wells had snuggled themselves 
tightly under the blankets in the furthermost end of the 
shed to escape the cold wind that was sweeping through. 

Either the lobscouse for supper or else perhaps some 
of the rich pound cake from home, had disagreed with 
Heber’s internal department. Like Tit-Willow, maybe 
he “had a rather tough worm in his little inside.” At all 
events, in the middle of the night he had a very bad attack 
of nightmare. 

All who had taken part in the battle of Antietam were 
still thinking of the horrible sights during the day and 
dreaming of it at night. The visit of Mr. Irish and the 
conversation about the death of the captain had perhaps 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


211 


renewed the scene in Heber’s mind, and probably he fell 
asleep while thinking about it. When he had the night- 
mare he thought that he was again in the battle. 

Heber suddenly arose in his sleep, and, throwing off the 
blankets, rushed to the company street and began yelling 
at the top of his voice : 

“Hello, Hank, get the men out at once! Where’s 
Dougherty? Get the men out quick, for the rebels are 
right on top of us ! For heaven’s sake, hurry, men, or 
we’ll all be captured! Where’s Hank Van Orden? 
Where’s Sam Dougherty? Why don’t they get out the 
men? Fall in. Company K!’’ 

Wells yelled this out with such a loud voice that it 
aroused the entire company. Hank Van Ordan ran half- 
dressed from his hut and grasped Wells around the waist, 
asking what was the matter. The other men were hastily 
buckling on their cartridge boxes and seizing their rifles. 
For a few moments there was a scene of the greatest ex- 
citement, and even the members of some of the other com- 
panies were aroused by the hullaballoo. 

In the midst of all this Heber awakened, for he had been 
fast asleep all this time and did not have the slightest idea 
of what he was doing, and perhaps was as much aston- 
ished as any of the rest of them till an explanation was 
made. 

But the funniest part of it all was the experience of 
Lewis Irish, the deceased captain’s brother. 

Hearing all the noise Mr. Irish sprang from his bed and 
attempted to jump to his feet. In doing so his head came 
in contact with the low roof of the shed, and gave him 
such a blow that it felled him. He was nearly knocked 
senseless. 

Irish thought that we were surrounded by the enemy 
and that a rebel had hit him a blow over the head with 
the butt end of a rifle. He thought that his day had 
come sure. He rushed out of the hut, exclaiming : 

“Oh, Heber, what shall I do? Where shall I gc? 
Give me a pistol or a gun, so that I can defend myself ! 
Which way is the enemy coming? Where’s the one that 
hit me on the head ?” 

Wells had sufficiently recovered his senses to take in the 


212 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


situation, and undertook to pacify Mr. Irish. But he was 
too excited to be quieted at once. 

“Quick, quick, Heber!” he exclaimed. “Tell me what 
to do ! I can’t stay here ! I am not a combatant. I am 
a citizen. I’ve no place here. Where shall I go ? What 
shall I do? What ” 

“That’s all right, Irish,” said Heber, trying to reas- 
sure him. “There’s no danger. There are no rebels 
round here. I only had an attack of nightmare or some- 
thing of the sort. You’d better get back to bed again, 
for there are no rebels within miles of here.” 

“Yes, there is. Yes, there is,” insisted Mr. Irish. 
“One of the scoundrels hit me on the head and almost 
killed me. I’m bleeding now from it.” 

Heber lighted a candle, and sure enough the blood was 
streaming from quite a serious wound on Mr. Irish’s head. 
How it happened no one seemed able to guess at the time. 
A search was made around that part of the camp to see if 
there were any strangers lurking around, but nothing un- 
usual could be discovered. The mystery remained un- 
solved until after Mr. Irish’s head had been bandaged up 
and quiet restored, and Wells and his visitor proceeded to 
return to bed. 

Then they found that immediately above the blankets 
where Irish had lain the poles of the low roof had been 
knocked out of place where Irish’s head had come in con- 
tact with them. On one of the poles was a projecting 
knob where a small branch had been cut off, and this had 
some hair and a particle of blood on it. The color of the 
hair corresponded with that on Mr. Irish’s head. That 
was the place where he had bumped his head as he sprang 
from his bed. It had been a hard knock, too, for the 
wound on Mr. Irish’s head the next morning was large 
and painful. 

But for the time being Mr. Irish thought sure that he 
had been hit in the head with a musket in the hands of a 
rebel. And no wonder. The startling yells and orders 
from Orderly Sergeant Wells in the middle of the night 
were enough to frighten almost anybody. Wells often 
laughed about the occurrence afterward. 

As for Mr. Irish, he had had enough of war. He made 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


213 


up his mind that he would not remain in the front another 
night if he had to walk all the way to Baltimore. But, 
fortunately, he managed to get transportation that day and 
left for home, and never so long as the war lasted did he 
again venture to the front. 

Many a time afterward, before he died, a few years 
since, he laughingly referred to the adventure, and can- 
didly admitted that for a little while he thought that his 
earthly career was at an end. He thought sure that the 
camp was surrounded by rebels and that one of them had 
hit him on the head with the butt end of a musket. 

“But what’s the difference ?” he often asked. “What 
difference does it make whether a man has his brains 
knocked out by the butt end of a musket or the gable end 
of a house ?” 


214 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE FIRST THING I KILLED. 

The march on the night that we left Harper’s Ferry 
was one of the hardest the Thirteenth ever experienced. I 
could never see the necessity for it. There was no need 
of any such hurry. We were not going to get into a 
fight, despite the predictions of my friend in the Wisconsin 
regiment. We were only going back to Sharpsburg to re- 
lieve the troops of General Fitz-John Porter, who were 
doing duty as pickets along the Potomac River opposite 
Sheperdstown. 

The entire Army of the Potomac, with the exception of 
the Eleventh and Twelfth corps, had crossed the river and 
started over into Virginia, in pursuit of the enemy, while 
the two corps mentioned were left behind to guard 
“Harper’s Ferry and the Potomac River.” The Eleventh 
corps had taken our place at Harper’s Ferry, and we — 
that is, the Twelfth corps — were sent further up the river. 
That there were some rebels in that neighborhood we soon 
found out. 

But as said before there was no necessity, so far as we 
could ever see, for the impetuous and hasty character of 
that night’s march. Many of the men fell out from 
sheer fatigue. While at Maryland Heights the most of 
us had got new knapsacks, and despite experience had 
again loaded ourselves down with various useful things 
in camp, but altogether too much to carry on the march. 

The result of this was that the road was again strewn 
with all sorts of things which we would soon need very 
much. Had we marched a little more slowly we might 
have retained all these necessities. There were few who 
stuck to their loads. When we reached our camp, some- 
where near morning, we were almost devoid of everything 
except our blankets and shelter or “pup” tents. And it 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


2I 5 


must be remembered that the season was advancing and 
the nights were becoming uncomfortably chilly. 

We went into camp near Sharpsburg, within but a short 
distance of the Antietam battlefield. Our duties consisted 
mainly of picket duty along the Potomac River. It was 
the first time we had ever been on picket immediately in 
front of the enemy. 

The rebels were on one side of the river and we were 
on the other ; we could see each other plainly. The river 
is narrow at that point, and when the water is low one can 
wade across, or step from stone to stone. At the time 
we were there the stones at the bottom could not be seen, 
but the river was shallow enough to wade across. 

On one side of the river was the Chesapeake and Ohio 
canal. This was the side we were on. The towpath was 
between the canal and the river. Between the towpath 
and the river there was an embankment, and at various 
spots there were trees growing. 

Our picket posts were supposed to be on the towpath. 
Where there were trees we got behind them. In other 
places we got down on the water side of the canal and 
behind the protection afforded by the sloping banks. 
There was not much water in the canal at that time, for 
there were no boats running then. 

These protections were very useful, for the rebels on the 
other side of the river kept popping away at us whenever 
they got a ch'ance, and we fired back every time we saw an 
exposed head on the other side of the river. We had no 
change of pickets at night for a while, because of this 
danger. The sergeant and his squad of men would re- 
main behind the protecting trees and embankment as long 
as it was daylight. 

I remember one day while on picket with John Butter- 
worth. We were both down in the ditch of the canal. 

“I wonder if there are any Johnnies on the other side 
now, anyway,” he said. The rebels were always referred 
to as the “Johnnies.” The enemy invariably called us 
the “Yanks.” 

“You’d better look out, Jack,” I replied. “Don’t run 
any risks with that cocoanut of yours.” 

“I’m going to take a peep, anyhow,” said John. And 


2l6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


so saying he raised up his head so that his eyes were just 
over the level of the towpath. 

“Z-z-z-z-ip V 

A bullet whistled by, uncomfortably close to Butter- 
worth’s head. You would have laughed to see him dodge. 
His head went down as if he had been shot! 

“By jingo, Joe,” said he. “I could feel the wind of that 
bullet in my hair. I guess there are some Johnnies over 
there after all.” 

“No doubt of that, Jack,” said I. “But say, wait a 
minute and see some fun.” 

With that I took off my hat and placed it on the end of 
my rifle. Then I slowly lifted it up as if a soldier was 
taking another peep over the towpath. 

“Zip !” came another bullet. It came near my cap, but 
did not touch it. I drew the hat down quickly, as if the 
wearer were dodging, and a moment later stuck the hat 
up again. 

Another bullet, two, three, came whistling by, and one 
of them went plump through my cap. 

“Pretty good shooters over there, Joe,” said John. 
“It’s a good thing your head was not in the hat then, or 
you would have been a goner, sure.” 

“If my head had been in that hat I wouldn’t have held 
it there, you know. I merely wanted to see if there was 
any danger of those fellows hitting anybody. That set- 
tles it. I don’t stick my head out there, in the daytime, 
you bet.” 

“Nor I, neither,” said John. 

I relate this to show the dangerous nature of the duty 
we were performing. In unguarded moments two or 
three of our men came near being shot, but the bullets 
missed their mark. 

It was most nonsensical sort of business, but then a 
soldier in the war is generally like the Irishman at Donny- 
brook fair. Whenever he saw a head he struck at it. 

In the night time one could walk along the towpath 
with comparative impunity. The rebels would fire ran- 
dom shots occasionally, but there wasn’t much danger of 
their hitting anything in the dark. The grand rounds 



There was nothing to do but to take the best aim I could and blaze away. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


217 


visited us and the officers of the guard very sensibly in- 
spected the outer posts in the night time. 

This desultory shooting at each other’s pickets from the 
opposite sides of the river was kept up for some time, and 
it was a constant nuisance and bother, let alone the dan- 
gerous part of it. It was very uncomfortable to patrol a 
beat on the inside of a canal bank. It was exasperating 
to see the river so close and yet impossible to get down 
to it. 

The first night I was on picket here I had an adventure. 

It was after midnight and the night was very dark. 
For the reasons before stated there was no apparent dan- 
ger then and I was walking along the towpath with my 
rifle carelessly hanging over my arm. 

All of a sudden I heard something creeping through the 
bushes near me. 

“Halt!” I cried, in the orthodox way. “Who comes 
there !” 

But not a word came in answer. On the contrary the 
mysterious personage kept coming toward me. I felt my 
hair raise in terror. 

“Halt !” I repeated, still more peremptorily, at the same 
time cocking my rifle in readiness to shoot. 

But it didn’t halt for a cent. 

I imagined all sorts of things — spies, midnight assassins, 
guerrillas, rebels detailed to go around and kill individual 
soldiers, everything horrible. That it was anything else 
than a man I never for a moment imagined. 

It became my plain duty to shoot. And yet then and 
there, under the extenuating circumstances that existed, 
I distinctly remember a horror at the idea of taking the 
life of a human being. It gave me the chills. 

But something must be done, and done quickly. If I 
didn’t shoot it, it would shoot or knife me, and so there 
was nothing to do but to take the best aim I could and 
blaze away. 

How I managed to hit the mark in the darkness of the 
night I don’t know. But I did. It rolled over, struggled 
a moment and was still. 

I was too much agitated to go and see who or what it 
was. I didn’t want to gaze upon the creature whose 


2l8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


death I had caused. So I yelled at the top of my voice : 

“Corporal of the guard — post No. io!” 

“What’s the matter?” asked the corporal, as he came 
running up, out of breath. 

“I — I — I’ve shot a man,” I stuttered. “He was sneak- 
ing up to me and would not stop when I hollered ‘halt’ 
three times, and so I shot him. See if he is dead.” 

The corporal proceeded to make an examination. 

“Yes, he is dead. Dead as a door nail.” 

I thought I should faint. Dead! I had killed a fel- 
low mortal. Horrible! In battle you shot, and didn’t 
know whether your individual gun had killed anybody or 
not. There is a consoling uncertainty about it. But the 
thought that you, with your own gun, with your own 
hand, have been the cause of the death of anybody, is a 
terrible thing. 

When the corporal came toward me pulling the dead 
body behind him, I wanted to run away, but of course 
could not. 

“I’ll share this with you in the morning, pard,” said 
the corporal. “We will have a dandy dinner to-morrow.” 

Dinner to-morrow! What did the corporal mean? 
Eat a human being? 

“Do you take me for a cannibal?” I asked in astonish- 
ment. 

“A cannibal ? What do you mean by that ?” 

“I mean do you think I am going to eat the man I 
have killed?” 

With that the corporal broke out in a fit of laughter 
that I thought very uncalled for under the circumstances. 

“A good joke, by thunder !” said he, as soon as he could 
recover his voice. “And did you really think you had 
shot a man ?” 

“Why, of course I did,” I answered. “What else?” 

“Take a look at the 'man’ you have killed,” said he, 
throwing the corpse toward me. 

I leaned down and examined it. Then I felt of it. 
Then I lifted the body up, and broke out into laughter 
myself. I was a little hysterical, too. The sudden revul- 
sion of feeling was the cause, for the body before me 
was not that of a man. 

It was only a ’possum! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


219 


CHAPTER XL. 

YANKS AND JOHNNIES. 

Sure enough, we had ’possum for dinner the next day, 
in a savory stew. ’Possum tastes a little like very young 
pork, but has a much finer flavor. We relished it im- 
mensely, particularly as it was the first time the most of us 
had ever tasted ’possum. 

The incident was duplicated many a time, for ’possum 
was very plentiful in that part of the country, and scarcely 
a night passed but that the men on picket saw one or more. 
They generally traveled at night. Of course, the size of 
a ’possum was nothing to be compared with a man, but 
in the darkness I could not see what it was, and I was 
terribly frightened and overcome for the few moments 
that I really thought I had killed a human being. 

Here let me tell the reader something strange. Expe- 
rience afterward made us very suspicious of a calf or a 
large pig creeping past us at night. Spies and scouts 
used to take calf hides and complete pig skins, and get- 
ting inside of them, crawl past the picket lines. More 
than one supposed pig or calf has been shot and the body 
of a man found inside the hide. 

Wolves travel in sheep’s clothing, according to the 
Good Book. The little school geographies we had in the 
primary departments invariably had pictures of Indians in 
wolf’s skin crawling toward the unsuspecting buffaloes. 
In war times all such devices are resorted to by the scouts 
to get past the picket lines. 

About a week later I was on picket again, at pretty near 
the same place. The rebels had continued their popping 
at every Union soldier’s head that they saw, and the Union 
soldiers had been keeping up their side in this nonsensical 


220 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


individual warfare. But one day we were astonished by 
an unusual sign on the other side of the river. 

It was a white handkerchief — or rather a handkerchief 
that had once been white — held up on the end of a bayonet. 

A white flag is a “flag of truce.” It means a cessation 
of hostilities. If the other side agrees to the truce, an 
answering white signal is set. We had some trouble to 
find anything white enough to serve as a flag, and finally 
resorted to a small muslin bag that one of the boys had in 
his haversack to hold his sugar. 

A very dirty-looking rebel then stepped out, and hold- 
ing his hands to his mouth like a speaking-trumpet, yelled 
out : 

“Hey, Yank !” 

“Hey, Johnny !” was our reply. 

“Will you stop shootin’ if we-uns do?” 

“We will.” 

“All right. We-uns’ll send you a message.” 

“How?” 

“Wait’n you’ll see.” 

We waited. We could see three or four of the dirty 
gray backs doing something down at the edge of the river, 
but could not see what it was, when something like a long, 
little boat started across. 

It was a very ingenious arrangement. 

A fence rail, one side of which was round and the other 
side flat, made something very much the shape of a boat. 
At intervals were stuck twigs, for masts. On the masts 
were sails made of paper. At the rear end of the rail was 
an improvised rudder. 

The man who concocted this arrangement, and adjusted 
the sails and rudder must have been a sailor at some time 
in his life, for the gentle breeze that prevailed at the time 
brought it straight as if it had been manned by human 
sailors. 

We went down to the side of the river and caught the 
queer little ferryboat as it landed. 

On one of the masts was a sheet of paper folded up. 
Opening it it was found to be the “message.” It read, 
as nearly as I can remember it after so many years, about 
as follows : 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


221 


“Yanks : If you fellers stop a-shootin we-uns will 
stop a shootin. Whats the sens of us a shootin at each 
uther? Let’s be a little sochibul. Have you fellers any 
coffie what you’d like to swap for some tobaccy? We- 
uns has plenty tobaccy but no cofee, and we-uns knows 
what you fellers has lots of cofee and no tobaccy. Send 
anser by bote. Shift the sales and the ruder tother way, 
and she’ll come over all right. Hoping these fu lines 
will find you enjying good helth, we subscrib oursels yours 
truly, Johnny." 

Anything for a lark. Here was a chance seldom of- 
fered. It struck me very strangely. 

All along I had regarded the rebels as something in- 
human. I cannot exactly explain it, but all of a sudden 
it came to me that here were fellow human beings on 
the other side, who as individuals were no more concerned 
in the war than we were, who were willing to stop the 
practice of killing on sight, and anxious to strike a com- 
mon-sense, everyday barter. 

The impression such an event gave to the private sol- 
diers was that the war was a useless and uncalled-for 
affair, and might as well be stopped then and there. It 
is impossible to convey to the reader the precise emotions 
aroused. Somehow everything that had passed slipped 
entirely from the memory, and awakened a dim, unac- 
countable, indefinable vision of the way things might be if 
peace were declared. 

But we didn’t stop to reflect or moralize. We had 
plenty of coffee, as the rebels had surmised, and were 
willing to share with the enemy, especially as it was 
always reported that the rebels had an unlimited supply of 
tobacco of a superior quality. 

So we tied up in an old piece of paper as much coffee 
as it would hold, each man contributing his quota, and 
fastened it to the “boat." We also wrote a return “mes- 
sage," and stuck it on one of the tiny masts. As near as 
I can remember the message ran something like this : 

“Johnnies : We send you some coffee ; now send the 
tobacco. We will stop shooting at your hats if you will 


222 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


do the same. What is the use, as you say? If you fel- 
lows go back on your word, now, look out. Yanks.” 

I wrote the original of that letter, and so have a pretty 
clear remembrance of what was in it. I remember dis- 
tinctly that I signed it “Yanks,” the same as they had 
addressed us. 

We adjusted the sails and rudder of the little craft as 
suggested and sent the comical ferryboat on its journey 
across the river. But somehow or other we did not fix 
the nautical tackle right, and instead of going across, as 
intended, the improvised boat suddenly turned down 
stream and started in the direction of Harper’s Ferry in 
a lively manner. 

If that message had got into the hands of some of the 
officers it might have caused us trouble, for to “hold 
communication with the enemy” was a grave offense — a 
good deal more grave than any of us appreciated at the 
moment. 

But no such disaster happened. The rail boat had not 
gone far before one of the rebels jumped into the river 
and waded out to the little craft and carried it to the Vir- 
ginia side of the river. The water was not very deep. It 
was hardly up to the “Johnny’s” hips. 

We could see them open the message and read it, and 
there was a scramble between them for a division of the 
coveted coffee. In a little while they sent the boat back 
again with some smoking tobacco that was excellent, and 
which we greatly appreciated. There was no message 
this time. One of the rebels shouted across the water 
that they had no more paper. 

But it was not a great distance across the river and 
we could talk to each other in a somewhat loud voice. 
This sort of a conversation was not very satisfactory, 
however, but it ended in a somewhat startling proposition 
from “our friends, the enemy.” 

It was, if we would receive them in the same spirit in 
which they came, they would come over the river after 
dark and have a “chin” with us. 

We counseled among ourselves about this. It was a 
rather risky proposition — not so much that we would be 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


223 


captured by the rebels or that they would take some other 
advantage of it, but that we might be caught by some 
of the officers, with disastrous results. 

But we finally decided to take the risk, and the arrange- 
ment was that our visitors should come over immediately 
after the “first relief” went on their posts — that is at 9 
o’clock. 

And so the programme was carried out. The first relief 
had hardly taken the place of the third, when we heard 
the quiet splashing of the water from the little group of 
rebels wading over to us. 


224 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XLI. 

OUR FRIENDS THE ENEMY. 

For a picket post to hold communication with the 
pickets of the enemy is one of the things most emphat- 
ically forbidden by the articles of war. But that it was 
done many times during the course of the war is unmis- 
takable. There is many an old soldier who can testify to 
the fact from his own personal experience. 

If any of us thought of the magnitude of the offense 
he did not mention it. I know for myself there was no 
idea of doing anything wrong. It was merely a little 
novelty that tended to relieve the terrible monotony of 
picket duty, and consequently simply regarded as a wel- 
come diversion. 

There were six in the party of rebels that came across 
the river. There were twelve or fifteen on our side, so 
that there was no danger of a capture or anything of 
that sort — at least so far as we were concerned. The 
greatest manifestation of trust and good faith had cer- 
tainly been on the part of the “Johnnies,” in the way 
they had put themselves in our power. 

They had further shown their trust by leaving their 
guns behind them. They were completely in our power 
if we had wanted to be mean. But we never thought of 
such a thing as that. 

“Hello, Yanks,” said the spokesman, as he came up 
dripping from the water. “That was mighty good coffee 
you-uns sent we-uns.” 

That was a Southern provincialism that may strike 
the reader as funny, but it was used almost exclusively 
in conversation on the part of the majority of men in the 
rebel army. They always said “you-uns” for “you,” and 
“we-uns” for “we” or “us.” 

“Hello, Johnnies,” replied one of our boys, “and that 



“ Hello, Yanks,” said the spokesman, as he came up dripping from the 
water. “ That was mighty good coffee you-uns sent we-uns.” 

Page 224 




















































































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


225 


was good tobacco you sent us in return. It was the best 
we have had in a long while. ,, 

“Yes, we know the kind of tobaccy you-uns have. It 
comes from Baltimore, don’t it?” 

We told them that they had guessed right. 

“We-uns gets our tobaccy from Virginny crop, put 
up in Richmond — the best in the whole world. You-uns 
don’t get much o’ that nowadays. You-uns’ tobaccy is 
from Maryland, I reckon.” 

We told the spokesman that we didn’t know anything 
about it, except that it came from Baltimore. 

“Where be you-uns from?” asked the rebel spokesman. 

We told him. We represented several Northern States. 
In return they told us that they were from all the way 
from Virginia to Texas. 

We sat down on the canal bank, and lighted our pipes. 
There was a fire on the canal side of the bank, which we 
had lighted for the first time after the agreement not to 
indulge in any more shooting. We boiled some coffee 
and proceeded to have a regular picnic. 

Both sides were a little guarded in the conversation 
at first, so as not to give offense to each other. But on 
the general topic of the war we had a nice talk. 

“How long do you-uns think this thing’s agoin’ to 
last ?” asked one of the rebels. 

“Till you fellows give up,” replied I, banteringly. 

“If we-uns had our way,” replied the Johnny, “it 
wouldn’t be long afore that happened. We-uns is good 
and sick of it. If it weren’t for the officers and the pol- 
erticians, it would be settled mighty soon, I reckon.” 

“There is something in that,” I answered. “But you 
all know we of the North are fighting for the Union, 
which you want to destroy.” 

“We don’t want to destroy nothin’,” answered the rebel. 
“We-uns don’t want to destroy the Union.” 

“Then what are you fighting for ?” I asked. 

“ ’Cause we have to,” was the answer. “You-uns 
don’t supose we would be here if they didn’t make us 
come, do you? Didn’t they make you-uns come to fight 
the same way?” 


226 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“No, we didn’t have to come,” I replied. “We enlisted 
of our own accord. We volunteered, you know.” 

“What, went into the army and didn’t have to?” 

“That’s as true as gospel.” 

“Well, I’ll be derned,” exclaimed the astonished rebel. 
“If we-uns didn’t have to come I’ll reckon there wouldn’t 
be many of us in the front. Of course there’s some of 
.’em what came at the first because they didn’t want the 
Northern ablishionists to free our niggers. That’s what 
the war’s for, isn’t it?” 

Now I am willing to affirm that that is the first time 
I ever had any idea that the abolition of slavery had any- 
thing to do with the war. And from the exclamations 
and denials of my comrades I do not think any of them 
ever dreamed of such a thing. We vehemently protested 
against this view of the case and so told our strange 
guests. But they could not be shaken in their belief that 
the freedom of the slaves was one of the essential causes 
of the war. 

“That’s what we-uns believes, anyhow,” said the spokes- 
man of the party. “Now, see here. You-uns have fac- 
tories and railroads and such like. Suppose we-uns went 
for to destroy all them, wouldn’t you fight agin it ?” 

“I think we certainly should,” I replied. 

“Well, then,” continued the rebel spokesman, “we-uns 
have no factories and few railroads. We have cotton 
fields and sugar-cane plantations. Our niggers do the 
work. We own ’em, the same as the plantations. You 
want to make our niggers free, and so take away all our 
property. Then we-uns fight agin it, see? You would 
do the same thing, I reckon.” 

The slavery part of the question had never entered 
my mind, and I was not prepared to argue it. But I 
said : 

“I thought you said that you are fighting because 
they made you, and here you are saying that you are 
only defending your rights and what you call your prop- 
erty.” 

“I ain’t talking for myself,” said the rebel. “I was 
made to come. I don’t own no niggers and never did. 
I worked in a grocery store in Montgomery. But I’m 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


227 


only telling you-uns what we-uns heard men say, what 
they are keeping up the war for. So far as we-uns here 
are consarned, none o’ us have any niggers and we don’t 
care how soon this thing stops.” 

“Nor which side comes out ahead,” chimed in another 
of the “Johnnies.” 

This conversation, so odd and under such strange cir- 
cumstances, was kept up for some time, and then branched 
off into other things more personal, mainly reminiscent 
of the war. They were all old soldiers and had seen some 
hard service, and their stories were very interesting. 

“’Sh-h-h! Hark!” 

This came simultaneously from several mouths. We 
listened and heard voices further down the canal. It was 
at the next “post.” 

“Who comes there ?” we heard. 

“The grand rounds,” was the answer we heard. 

Then there was a quiet scattering. We were intensely 
surprised. We had gauged our time so as to keep on the 
lookout for the grand guards. Generally they do not 
come around till after midnight. And yet it was, not yet 
11 o’clock. 

We hastily but quietly directed our rebel visitors to get 
behind the trees growing at the foot of the canal bank, at 
the edge of the river. They were thoroughly frightened. 

“You-uns ain’t agoin’ to give us away?” 

“Never fear of that,” we assured them. 

The sentry on the nearest post, the sergeant and cor- 
poral of the guard went about their business, as if faith- 
fully doing their duty, while the rest of us hastily pulled 
our blankets around us and pretended to be asleep, as we 
were supposed to be. 

The grand rounds came along and were received in the 
customary fashion. 

“Everything all right here?” asked the officer of the 
day, a captain. 

“Everything quiet, sir,” was the answer. 

“I see some embers here. Have you been having a 
fire?” 

“Y-y-yes, sir,” stammered the sergeant. 

“I thought the orders were not to light any fires on 


228 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


this line,” said the officer. “It’s rather dangerous. Put 
it out and don't light it again. It will draw the fire of the 
enemy.” 

“They've not been shooting at all to-day, captain,” said 
the sergeant. “I guess there ain’t any rebels on the other 
side now. We haven’t seen any signs of them for some 
time.” 

The sergeant was a good deal more correct about there 
not being “any rebels over there” than the captain had 
any idea of. I saw through the subterfuge and could 
hardly keep from laughing outright. 

“Well, keep a strict lookout, sergeant,” said the captain, 
as he and the rest of the detail forming the grand rounds 
took their departure for the next post. 

When the way was clear we gave the signal, and the 
concealed rebels emerged from their hiding-places. 

“You-uns are a lot o’ bricks,” said the first one out. 
“You had us that time, if you wanted to go back on 
we-uns.” 

“Oh, we would never do a thing like that,” was the 
reply, “after having given our words. But, all the same, 
you fellows had better get across again for ” 

This advice was interrupted by a shot from a rifle, and 
the bullet came whistling past us and struck into one of 
the trees with a characteristic “zip !” 

Instantly there was a scene of great excitement. 
Every one of our picket guards sprang to his feet and 
seized his rifle. 

Our rebel visitors sprang into the river with a loud 
splash ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


229 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AN ALL-AROUND SCARE. 

Although alarming for the time being, the combi- 
nation of occurrences that caused all the commotion pre- 
vailing at the conclusion of the preceding chapter was 
very comical. 

It transpired that the man on the next post had fallen 
asleep, leaning against a tree, as frequently happened. It 
is wonderful with what ease a soldier would fall asleep, 
standing up, leaning against a tree or even on the march. 
And he would suddenly awake at the first start, like a nod- 
ding deacon listening to the drowsy sermon from an old- 
fashioned minister of the “thirteenthly” sort. 

The sleepy sentinel heard the approach of the grand 
rounds, and to his half-awake mind it probably seemed 
like the approach of the entire rebel army. So, in a 
dazed sort of way, he raised his rifle and blazed away. 

The startled grand rounds, hearing the bullet whistle 
past them, naturaly imagined that they were being sur- 
rounded by a scouting party from the enemy, and they 
retreated hastily back to the next post, where we were, 
which was the headquarters of that particular section of 
the picket line. 

The bullet zipping past us, and the footsteps of the 
running grand rounds coming toward us, made us also 
think that the rebels were making some sort of a flank 
movement around us. 

The rebel visitors, hearing the shooting of the rifle and 
the whizzing bullet, perhaps thought that we had laid 
some trap for their capture despite our promises and 
pledge of immunity. 

The splashing of the retreating visitors in the water 
as they were scurrying across the river also added to the 
mystification of the officer of the day and his companions 


230 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of the grand rounds, and thus it was that every one of the 
different characters in the farce was for the time being 
startled, because of his ignorance of all the circumstances. 

“Halt!” our sentry called out, at the approach of the 
grand rounds on their backward movement. The usual 
exchanges were made and the countersign given. Then 
we began to speculate on the cause of that shot. Every- 
thing was quiet in that direction now. 

“ ’Sh !” said the captain who was serving as officer of 
the day. “I think it was a rebel scouting party trying to 
cross the river. I thought I heard them after the shot. 
Did you men hear anything ?” 

We all solemnly averred that we had not. But at the 
same time we knew well enough what had made that 
splashing in the water. 

“Suppose I go up and see if there is anything the matter 
with the man on that post?” suggested our sergeant. 

“That’s a good plan,” said the officer of the day. “But 
you’d better take a file of men with you to be on the safe 
side.” 

I happened to be one of three selected for this duty. 
We crept cautiously and with as little noise as possible, 
and when we got near enough we heard sounds that we 
recognized as those attendant on the loading of a musket. 

“Hello, Jack,” said the sergeant cautiously, abandoning 
the usual formula for approaching a sentry, “what’s the 
matter ?” 

“Nothing,” he replied. “Was that the grand rounds?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, they got on to me rather suddint, and I blazed 
away at ’em not thinkin’.” 

“And you nearly scared the life out of the whole of us,” 
said the sergeant. 

“We returned to the post station and reported that 
everything was all right. The officer of the day was 
satisfied with that part of the explanation, but he was 
still dubious about that splashing in the water. He 
thought it strange that none of us had heard it, and it 
seemed to arouse his suspicions. Just then David Harris, 
who was with us, was smart enough to invent a story to 
get out of the dilemma. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


231 


“I guess I can explain it, captain,” said he. “There’s 
a big flock of ducks there feeding. I saw them before 
dark, and have heard them quacking several times. I 
guess that shot scared them, and their fluttering through 
the water was what we heard.” 

Davy Harris’ stupendous audacity at this ingenious in- 
vention excited my most profound admiration. 

“Ah,” said the captain, “that must be it. But you boys 
must be careful for the enemy might make a feint at any 
time. Fall in, grand rounds.” (This to his detail.) 

The grand rounds then proceeded to the whilom sleepy 
sentry, who was wide enough awake by this time, and was 
received “according to the regulations.” He gave the cap- 
tain some cock-and-bull story about his gun going off ac- 
cidentally, but that didn’t work. Official dignity had 
been insulted. A high-toned commissioned officer could 
not be given such a scare as that with impunity. The 
sentinel was placed under arrest and another man put in 
his place. 

The fellow told us afterward how he had got asleep 
for sure, and was thoroughly startled at the approach of 
the grand rounds at such an unexpected hour. But we 
never gave him away, and, beyond a few hours in the 
guard house, he escaped punishment. 

In the morning we rigged up another rail ferryboat 
and sent a messenger over to our rebel friends on the 
other side, explaining the matter, as we did not want them 
to think that we had wilfully gone back on them. 

We expected to see them again, but did not. I was 
on picket two or three times afterward, but always at some 
other post. But we told the men who relieved us of what 
had occurred, and the nightly visits were kept up for 
some time. There is more than one private soldier of the 
Thirteenth who could testify to these facts to-day, and it 
was a pleasant and enjoyable innovation on the usual 
monotony of picket duty. 

I don’t know if any of the officers ever “caught on” to 
it. I am inclined to believe that they knew nothing about 
it, at least at the time, or they might have put a stop to it. 
But then the officers did not know everything that was 
going on in those days — not much they didn’t 1” 


232 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


It was a frequent occurrence for the opposing picket 
posts to come together in this sociable manner, unless it 
was right before an expected battle, when the men were 
enemies in fact as well as in name. But by no means 
were the private soldiers thirsting for the blood of their 
brethren on the other side. 

And I never heard of advantage being taken by either 
side of those who thus trusted the enemy’s pickets and 
put them on their honor as men. Perhaps if it had been 
a war between two different nations there would not have 
been such a thing possible, for there would have been a 
natural enmity and antipathy that could not have been 
overcome. But this was a civil war, or brother against 
brother, and the circumstances were somewhat peculiar. 
At the same time it cannot be denied that it was “holding 
communication with the enemy,” although never, to my 
knowledge, was any information given of each other’s 
strength or movements. These intersectional calls and 
visits were always merely sociable and personal. 

When we had been on picket we were excused from 
drill and other duties the next day. We were supposed to 
to take it to rest, and we generally did, unless a march 
was ordered. But on other days we had no end of drill- 
ing and dress parades and other military maneuvers, so 
that we were kept pretty busy, and no one complained of 
the want of exercise. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


233 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

AN INSPECTION. 

An inspection is one of the bugbears of the soldier. 
Not only is this so in an active campaign, but it is so with 
troops in barracks and forts, and as much so in the reg- 
ular army, where a man makes it the business of his life, 
as it is in the volunteer service in time of war, when it is 
only an exigency. 

We were always notified of the coming* of the inspec- 
tion officer. Of course, we had an inspection by our regi- 
mental officers every Sunday morning while in camp, but 
the visit of the official inspector was another thing. It 
was a very useful thing, all must admit, but at the same 
time it was a perfect nuisance to the average soldier. 

Upon receiving notification that the inspecting officer 
was coming every soldier proceeded to put himself in pre- 
sentable shape. The first thing of all was to clean our 
rifles. They must be taken apart and cleaned to the acme 
of perfection. Not a particle of dust must be found any- 
where upon them, and the polished parts must shine like 
silverware. 

This, with the limited facilities at our disposal, was 
no easy task. There was a dearth of old rags and other 
material with which to clean the guns. Sapolio, silverine 
and other polishing materials were not furnished by the 
government, but a fairly good substitute was found in 
common dry clay, which gave a pretty good polish to 
the metal work of our weapons. 

On the cartridge box at our side and on the belt around 
our waist there was a big brass plate, bearing the letters 
“U.*S.,” and on the cross over the breast there was another 
brass plate bearing what was supposed to represent the 
great American eagle, but which in reality more resembled 
a turkey buzzard. I think it was John Ick who originated 


234 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the name of “buzzard” in our company, for he was always 
talking of the time when that bird would pick the flesh 
off his bones. That* of course, would be after he had 
passed through the ordeal of the “slaughter house.” 

These brass plates had to be polished to the highest 
notch of perfection. And then the belts and shoes had to 
be blackened or polished, although at times it was hard to 
get blackening, and the unfair part of it was that we had 
to provide ourselves with this, purchasing it out of our 
own pockets from the sutlers. 

The clothes had to be neatly brushed and the entire 
toilet of the soldier made as respectable as possible. Not 
only that, but the knapsacks had to be packed in a certain 
manner, with each piece laid in a particular part of the 
pack, and the blanket rolled so that the edges came in just 
a certain position. 

The whole object of this was to have everything in per- 
fect uniform. The word “uniform” expresses the equip- 
ment of a body of troops exactly. Every man’s apparel 
and equipment must be exactly like his fellow’s. These 
things seem trivial, taken individually, but when it comes 
to a vast number of men the importance of the matter i? 
obvious. 

On assembling for inspection the regiment forms in line 
the same as in dress parade and then wheels into compa- 
nies. Then at a shoulder arms the inspecting officer and 
his assistants, accompanied by the staff officers of the 
regiment, take a hasty trip down the front of each of 
the ten companies in succession and then around the back. 
Then he starts again at the company on the right and pro- 
ceeds to inspect the arms of every individual soldier. This 
is the crucial test. 

As the inspecting officer, who, by the way, was always 
a very airish and self-important official, with a strikingly 
arrogant manner, approaches each soldier, the latter holds 
up his gun in front of him in a certain prescribed manner, 
so that it is handy for the officer to take. 

The inspector seizes the gun with a snap and jump, 
something as a startled mother would grab a bottle of 
poison from the hand of a child. I don’t know why they 
did it in this way, but the inspecting officers certainly 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


235 


always did so. Then the inspector takes the rifle, exam- 
ines it carefully and tries the trigger, as if he were in a 
store examining a new gun which he proposed to buy. 

The inspector invariably wore spotless white gloves to 
begin with. On the condition of those white gloves at 
the end of the inspection depended the percentage of per- 
fection. The cleaner the gloves the higher the percentage. 
The more soiled they were the lower the rate of credit. 
The result of the inspection was accordingly decided auto- 
matically, as it were. 

To begin with, the inspector would rub a finger under 
and around the hammer to see if he could find a speck 
of dirt there. But the next ordeal was the worst. I 
forgot to say that before handing the gun to the inspec- 
tor the ramrod had to be drawn from its sheath and 
dropped into the barrel of the rifle. The inspector would 
give the gun a sort of upward throw that would send 
the ramrod up a ways and let it fall back into the barrel. 
If there was a bright-bell-like, musical result, it showed 
that the barrel was clean, for if there was dirt there, there 
would be a dull sound instead of the bell-like result. 

If there was any suspicion of dirt or dust the inspector 
would turn the ramrod around on the bottom of the 
barrel, and twist the end of it on the palm of his white 
glove. Woe to the soldier if there was any dirt on the 
end of the ramrod to soil that white glove. 

When the inspector had finished examining the gun, 
he would throw it back with a force that would almost 
knock the soldier over in his efforts to catch it. The 
agility with which the soldier officiated in the catcher’s 
box on such an occasion seemed to be an important factor 
in the inspector’s opinion of that individual soldier. 

As will be imagined this inspection of every individual 
in a regiment of seven or eight hundred men was a 
slow and tedious process and the fatigue of standing there 
in line so long was one of the reasons why the ceremony 
was so much dreaded. But this part of the inspection was 
finally concluded. 

Then the soldiers had to open their percussion cap and 
cartridge boxes, while the inspector marched around and 
ascertained if they all contained the required complement 


236 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of ammunition. After that each soldier had to unsling 
his knapsack and lay it carefully on the ground behind him 
open, so that the inspector could see that every article was 
packed according to the regulations. Every article had 
to lie just so, even to the manner of its folding. 

In times when the army was in camp, or otherwise so 
situated that the things discarded on the march could be 
replaced, every soldier had to have certain necessary arti- 
cles and to show them to the officials on these periodical 
inspections. This fact got John Ick and Reddy Mahar 
into trouble. 

The inspection near Sharpsburg was the first one where- 
in the inspector had pried into the interior of the knap- 
sacks. On former occasions only the outside of the 
“trunks” were examined. As a loaded knapsack is quite 
heavy, Mahar and Ick had invented an ingenious scheme 
to reduce the fatigue; they had done this so neatly that 
no one knew the difference. The knapsacks stood out 
firm and plump as if they contained all the articles called 
for. 

Their ingenuity, however, on this occasion brought Ick 
and Mahar to grief. When the order came to “Open 
knapsacks,” these two worthies looked at each other in a 
guilty fashion, and I could almost see them grow pale as 
they saw the nice and orderly manner in which their 
comrades had packed their knapsacks. Ick and Mahar 
held back. “Didn’t you hear the order to open knap- 
sacks ?” said Scott, who was in command of the company. 

“No, captain, you see ” Mahar began to say; but 

he was interrupted by the captain : 

“Open your knapsacks, I said.” 

“Mister Scott,” put in Ick, who always had a funny 
way of addressing the officer as “mister,” “please oxcuse 
me. I don’t vant to opens mine knapsack any more alretty 
this time. You see it vas ” 

“Open those knapsacks!” roared the captain, getting 
angry. 

The two men sheepishly proceeded to open the knap- 
sacks, and then the entire company saw why they hesi- 
tated. Both were stuffed with straw ! 

The straight line that Company K had been maintain- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


237 


ing was immediately broken up, for every man was nearly 
bent double with laughter. Captain Scott looked as if 
he would like to annihilate the two men on the spot, for 
it was a reflection on him. According to the rules he 
should have held a little inspection of the company him- 
self before coming out on the field, to see that everything 
was all right, but this he had, of course, failed to do. 

To make it all the worse, just at this moment along 
came the inspecting officer and his staff. That terrible 
autocrat seemed to take the whole thing as a personal in- 
sult and fairly roared. But even his roaring could not 
stop the laughter among the other members of Com- 
pany K. 

Poor Ick and Mahar rather got the worst of that 
scheme. They were sent to the guard house, and after 
the inspection were put through their punishment. The 
penalty prescribed by Captain Scott was appropriate. 

For four solid and tedious hours John Ick and Reddy 
Mahar marched up and down the company street carry- 
ing knapsacks filled with stones. When they got through 
with the ordeal they were nearly dead with fatigue, and 
the straps holding up the heavy load had cut through the 
flesh of their shoulders seemingly almost to the bone. 


238 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

WE BUILD A HOUSE. 

“I am always suspicious of those inspections,” said 
John Stansfield to me, after the conclusion of the par- 
ticular one described in the foregoing chapter. 

'‘Why, John?” I asked. 

“Because they are not held for nothing. They mean 
that there is something coming off pretty soon. These 
things are to see that the army is in good order and ready 
for a move of some sort. Do you remember what that 
Hoosier said just before we left Maryland Heights?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “But that did not amount to much 
after all. There was no fighting after that review. We 
were only given a little march.” 

“I don’t exactly mean that we will get into a fight,” 
answered Stansfield ; “but there’ll be something — either a 
march or a fight before long.” 

It really seemed as if Stansfield was right. There was 
generally some sort of a movement after a review or an 
inspection of more than ordinary formality, so that the 
soldiers had begun to regard the sign as unfailing. Every 
old soldier regarded these things as the first steps toward 
some important change or movement. But so far as this 
particular affair was concerned the rule did not hold good, 
inasmuch as we remained in the vicinity of Sharpsburg for 
some little time after that. This occasion, however, was 
unquestionably an exception to the general rule. 

The rigors of army life and exposure, together with 
the approach of cold weather, began to play havoc with the 
soldiers of the Thirteenth New Jersey. A great many 
of them were taken sick, and the temporary hospital that 
had been improvised was full. Nearly two hundred were 
sick, and six of these cases resulted fatally. The hospital 
was an old two-story frame building about a mile from 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


23 9 


our camp, and about as comfortable as the pest house on 
the almshouse farm. 

Although there were a number of the members of Com- 
pany K on the sick list, yet there were no deaths among 
them. So far as I was concerned, my health was splendid. 

While we were at Sharpsburg there were also a good 
many promotions and other changes among the officers. 
George M. Hard, a Newarker — now president of one of 
the leading national banks of New York City — was trans- 
ferred to the position of first lieutenant of Company K. 
This made some grumbling, for the men argued that if 
there were any offices to fill the vacancies should be filled 
from among our own members. But Hard proved a good 
officer, and the grumbling did not last long. Further- 
more, he was soon afterward transferred to another com- 
pany. 

It is unnecessary in this story to refer to all the changes, 
but I well mention one case — that of Lieutenant Ambrose 
M. Matthews, who was promoted to the captaincy of Com- 
pany I, a position he held to the end of the war, although 
he was entitled to a much higher position, for a better man 
never lived. 

He is now a prosperous business man of Orange, N. J., 
and is fortunately so situated in life that he can devote a 
good deal of time to the interests of the veteran soldiers, 
and there is no man on the face of the earth who takes a 
livelier interest in these matters than he does. He was an 
excellent officer and is to-day one of the most esteemed 
citizens of Orange, holding many positions of trust and 
honor in the commercial world of that community. 

It was getting very cold, for it was now November, and 
really the temperature in that part of Maryland is not 
much warmer than it is here. Every morning the ground 
was covered with a thick white frost, and when the com- 
pany was called out for the reveille roll call the breath 
came from the men’s mouths like a jet of steam. We suf- 
fered considerably in consequence. 

For a little while we were — that is a portion of Com- 
pany K — quartered in an old school building on the main 
street of Sharpsburg. Out of curiosity I visited the same 
building a year or so ago, But we were glad not to 


240 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


stay there long, for it had been previously occupied by 
some of General Fitz-John Porter's troops, and the place 
was so infested with “pendiculus investimenti ,” that it was 
more than an offset for the protection the building afford- 
ed against the cold. 

Somewhere about the middle of November the regiment 
was divided into two wings, and located a couple of miles 
or so apart to facilitate the work we were engaged in — 
picket duty. Lieutenant-Colonel Swords was in com- 
mand of one of these wings and Major Chadwick of the 
other. The colonel moved his headquarters to a point 
about half w;ay between the two wings. 

Then the story got out that we were going to remain 
there all winter, and we proceeded to make ourselves more 
comfortable. Some of the officers even sent for their 
wives and friends to come and visit them. My pard, John 
Butterworth, and I proceeded to build a log house. 

An army log house is worth a brief description. These 
houses were generally “built for two.” In size they would 
perhaps not be larger than twelve feet long and about eight 
feet wide. 

First of all, we dug a square hole, something like a 
cellar, the size of the cabin. Butterworth called it “the 
basement.” That saved just so much timber, you know. 
Then we cut down some trees, which were split in half and 
cut the length and width of the house. These were 
notched near the ends, and then piled up after the manner 
of a “corncob house,” such as the children used to make. 

With considerable labor water was brought from the 
nearest stream and a sufficient quantity of mud made to fill 
up the chinks between the logs. The roof was composed 
of the pieces of our “pup” tents fastened together, and 
stretched over a ridge pole. 

Then came the building of the chimney, the most im- 
portant part. In one end of the “cellar” a hole was dug, 
like an oven, with a small round hole at the top, opening 
into the ground above. Above this was laid a lot of split 
sticks, two or three feet each in length, and covered with 
the peculiar red mud with which that part of this glorious 
country abounds. 

Great care had to be taken to leave none of the sticks 



My pard, John Butterworth and I proceeded to build a log house. 

Page 240 




THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


241 


exposed, or the chimney would take fire. It was a very 
frequent occurrence to be awakened in the night by a 
small conflagration and destruction of the domicile of 
some comrade from this cause. I have gone through the 
interesting experience myself more than once, notwith- 
standing the fact that Butterworth was almost profligate 
in his use of mud. 

The mud chimney would soon dry, and when completed 
it filled its purpose to perfection. Few of the most scien- 
tific chimneys of the present day would “draw” better than 
those stick-and-mud affairs that we had in the army. 

On the other end of the hut was built the bunk. This 
was composed of poles about six or seven feet long, fas- 
tened across, and on top of these was laid a lot of ever- 
green or cedar boughs, which formed the mattress. The 
boughs were covered with a rubber blanket, and the result 
was a good bed that was a good deal more comfortable 
than would be imagined on reading this description. 

A spare blanket or piece of shelter tent served the pur- 
pose of a door, and thus housed the soldier was quite com- 
fortable, with a big fire burning in the “fireplace” even in 
the severest weather. Many a pleasant hour I have spent 
in such a primitive residence, cooking lobscouse or playing 
old sledge. 

We began to receive our mail quite regularly, too, and 
this was a source of great satisfaction and pleasure. The 
home papers came to me about a week after being printed 
and with more or less regularity — generally more less than 
more. The local news, such as there was, interested us 
greatly. 

I say “such as there was” with all that it means. To 
tell the truth, there was not a great deal in the papers in 
those days besides war news. And we learned a good 
deal more about the war from these papers than we did 
otherwise. Even the very acts that we had participated 
in were presented to us plainer by the papers than we 
could see them for ourselves. 

Many a movement that we could not understand simply 
because we were a part of it, was explained by the ubiqui- 
tous war correspondent. But the funniest part of all was 
the editorial columns, These were mainly devoted to tell- 


242 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ing how the war ought to be prosecuted. None of the 
generals were doing right. If they would do this or that 
it would be a good deal better than the way they were 
doing. I refer to no particular paper. All that reached 
us were about the same. We soon came to the conclusion 
that the government had made a big mistake and put the 
army in charge of the wrong men. Instead of the gen- 
erals in command there seemed to be little doubt that the 
war might have been ended in half the time if the whole 
business had been placed in charge of the editorial and 
other critics at home. 

We also received many interesting letters from home. 
It was while at Sharpsburg that I heard for the second 
time from “The girl I left behind me.” 

With one exception it was the last one I received from 
that source. The next one was not so interesting. To 
while away the time I had written a letter to Mabel Sum- 
mers, the pretty little Frederick city girl. At the same 
time I wrote one to my Paterson girl. 

The letter to the Frederick girl never brought an an- 
swer. She must have thought the writer crazy. The 
letter from the Paterson girl was a curt and dignified de- 
mand for the return of her picture. It was not till after 
the war was over and she had cast her lot with another 
and better looking man that I understood the reason for 
such a summary dismissal. 

In directing those two letters, written at the same time, 
I had got them mixed up ! 

I can imagine the indignation and feelings of my Pater- 
son girl, now that I know the reason she answered as she 
did, after having read the letter to the Frederick city girl, 
but I can’t imagine how the latter received the letter that 
she got. And on such a brief acquaintance, too ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


243 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE FREDERICKSBURG CAMPAIGN. 

But we didn’t stay at Sharpsbprg all winter, as we 
expected, after all. On the 10th of December, a bitterly 
cold day it was, too, we were ordered to break camp. And 
from the rumors prevalent, notwithstanding the unusual 
time of the year, we were likely to get into another fight 
soon. 

Some great changes had taken place during the past 
few days, of which we heard pretty soon. For some rea- 
son known best to the government at Washington, General 
McClellan had been relieved from the command of the 
Army of the Potomac, and General Burnside had been ap- 
pointed in his place. 

It should be understood that, whereas the general in ♦ 
command in the field was popularly supposed to have 
charge of the operations, all the movements were directed 
from Washington, and these were mainly formulated by 
General Halleck. He, under the advice and direction of 
the president, was supposed to have command of all the 
armies in the field. The president had his hands full 
about that time, and, of course, he had to be invariably 
guided by the experience of General Halleck. 

The soldiers always referred to Halleck as “Grand- 
mother Halleck/’ and the name in my opinion was well 
placed. He was the greatest fogy imaginable. The 
records of the departments, the histories of the war, and 
the State papers of Abraham Lincoln, all of which I have 
carefully studied, go to show that Halleck did more to 
prolong the war in the first part of its existence than 
anything else. It was not till General Grant was given 
command that the ostensible commanding general of the 
army really had that control of it that he should. Grant 


244 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


would take command under no other circumstances, and 
he was right. 

The idea that a general in Washington could better 
direct the active movements of the army than the com- 
mander at the front in the presence of the troops, is ab- 
surd on the face of it. And yet that is the theory on which 
the first part of the war was prosecuted. 

General McClellan was in this manner handicapped all 
the time he was ostensibly in command of the Army of 
the Potomac. Some writers may argue differently, but I 
am satisfied of these facts. General McClellan was the 
idol of the soldiers, and there was a very general feeling 
that he had not been fairly treated by the powers that be, 
but when he was relieved there was not so much of a com- 
motion as there might have been. The feeling among the 
soldiers and many of the officers was: “Well, let them 
see if some other general can do any better than our Lit- 
tle Mack.” 

At the same time every soldier in the army had the most 
profound respect for General Burnside. He had been a 
corps commander and everybody knew that he was a good 
and fearless officer. The modest manner in which he ac- 
cepted the command of the army was also calculated to 
create a favorable impression. He said that he would take 
the command and do the best he could, but at the same 
time he did not consider himself qualified to command 
such a large body and carry them successfully through an 
important campaign. The boys heard of this and mani- 
fested a disposition to stand by him every time. 

General Burnside’s very first move, however, ran 
against the political generals and others who were run- 
ning the thing at Washington. Burnside proceeded to 
make some changes and transfers among the corps com- 
manders, somewhat after the plan adopted by the late 
Superintendent Byrnes when he gave the precinct captains 
a “shaking up” in New York City. 

The approval or disapproval of the powers that be was 
deferred till after the conclusion of the Fredericksburg 
campaigns, which were then in progress. Then when 
Burnside insisted on having his ideas carried out or being 
relieved from the command of the army, the influences 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


245 


brought to bear were too strong, and General Burnside 
was “relieved at his own request.” 

This is anticipating the story somewhat, but it is stated 
here to explain the state of mind and other adverse cir- 
cumstances that prevailed during the brief time that Gen- 
eral Burnside was in command of the Army of the 
Potomac. 

The order which we received to march away from 
Sharpsburg was the beginning of the movements con- 
nected with the inauguration of the Fredericksburg cam- 
paign. General Burnside had taken a position with the 
main portion of the army at Falmouth, nearly opposite 
Fredericksburg, and on the day that the Thirteenth left 
Sharpsburg, the 10th of December, the Union forces were 
practically in a position to assault the lines of the rebels. 

We were marched back to Harper’s Ferry, and on the 
following day were in camp at Loudon Heights. The 
next day we started again and. marched through the city 
or town of Leesburg. And before describing further 
progress, I want to tell something very sensational that 
happened at Leesburg. 

Before that, however, I will explain that on the same 
day, or about the same time, the battle of Fredericksburg, 
one of the sharpest and bloodiest battles of the war, was 
fought. The Thirteenth, nor any part of the Twelfth 
Corps, did not get into that battle, but we were supposed 
to form a part of the movement somehow, in occupying a 
position that would cut off one possible line of retreat. At 
least that was the explanation given. The why and where- 
fore I cannot attempt to explain. I was only a private sol- 
dier then, and knew no more than the other private 
soldiers, perhaps not as much as some of them. 

The battle of Fredericksburg was a peculiar one. Fred- 
ericksburg is a town on the southern side of the Rappa- 
hannock River, located on a hill. On the northern side of 
the river was the little village of Falmouth. The Union 
troops were on the Falmouth side, while the rebels occu- 
pied the city of Fredericksburg, and were strongly in- 
trenched behind breastworks. The enemy had destroyed 
all the bridges, and the only way to get across the river 
was on pontoon bridges. 


246 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The Union troops got across. They assaulted the town. 
They destroyed it, burned the houses and smashed the 
furniture, but — were driven back in confusion, as might 
naturally be expected under such circumstances. Result — 
nothing gained, much lost. The army that fell back across 
the river to Falmouth was 12,321 less in number than the 
army that went over the river. And the rebel loss was less 
than 5,300. 

Burnside was right in the estimation he had placed 
upon himself. The soldiers liked him, and he was a good 
corps commander, but he was never intended to have 
command of a large army. At the same time, after this 
disastrous result he was left in command, although still 
handicapped by the powers at Washington in the refusal 
to make the changes he had recommended. Perhaps the 
powers at Washington might have been right in this 
particular instance. 

I am getting a little “twisted” right here in trying to 
describe the movements of the two divisions of the army 
at the same time. I will return to the Thirteenth New 
Jersey once more. And this brings me back to what I was 
going to tell of what happened at Leesburg. 

There had been a number of desertions from all the 
regiments at Sharpsburg. The cold weather had damp- 
ened the ardor of the troops. The position of the army 
was such that it made it a comparatively easy matter to 
get away from it. A good many took advantage of this 
opportunity. 

I am sorry to say that there were some members of the 
Thirteenth New Jersey among the deserters. Some of 
these were recaptured and brought back by the provost 
guard. Others were never heard of till after the war. 

Of those brought back, the most were punished in dif- 
ferent ways. First it was by fining them several months’ 
pay. Then it was by imprisonment in some military prison 
or fortress. But these penalties did not seem to have the 
desired effect. It was decided to make a horrible example 
of some of the deserters in order that it might possibly 
have a deterrent effect on the others who might be over- 
come with an overwhelming degree of homesickness. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


247 


A squad of deserters were captured, brought back, court 
martialed, and sentenced to be shot ! 

Now President Lincoln was the kindest hearted of men. 
There is no telling how many men he pardoned during the 
war after they had been sentenced to be shot for desertion. 
But advantage had apparently been taken of this leniency, 
and the time had come when the recalcitrant soldiers 
should be made to believe that the government meant busi- 
ness. Executive clemency was therefore withheld in the 
case of three of the deserters from our corps, and we were 
startled with the notification to fall in to witness the ex- 
ecution ! 

The entire division was marched out to witness the 
terrible scene of three comrades being shot to death by 
their associates. I don’t believe there was a face in the 
division that was not pale, nor a pair of legs that were 
not more or less shaking at the knees. 

The details of the execution will be given in the next 
chapter. 


248 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

AN AWFUL SCENE. 

Three deserters were to be shot that morning and we 
were compelled to witness the execution ! 

Fain would we all have escaped the ordeal, but it was 
impossible. No one was excused. Every soldier must 
have indelibly impressed upon his memory that it is a 
heinous offense to desert. Every soldier must be made to 
understand that this was hereafter to be the fate of de- 
serters. 

None who took part will ever forget that day. So far 
as the preliminary sensations and emotions were con- 
cerned it was a thousand times worse than any battle. 
The men were subdued and silent as if going to a funeral 
— and indeed they were. Poor John Ick’s lugubrious ex- 
pressions about a “slaughter house” met a response in all 
our minds, for like nothing else than a slaughter house 
did it appear to us. 

It seemed as if the orderly sergeant was more quiet 
than usual in forming the company, and the tone of the 
captain as he ordered the company to march to the parade 
ground was low and sorrowful. When the regiment was 
formed there was an unusual lack of bustle and enthu- 
siasm. A spirit of sadness, I might say of horror, per- 
vaded the entire command. 

It was a beautiful day. There was not a cloud in the 
sky and the sun shone down on the glittering bayonets 
till they looked like silver spikes. The men all wore sober 
countenances as we marched out to the place of execution. 

There were three men to be shot. Two were from the 
Firty-sixth Pennsylvania, and the other, I regret to say, 
from the Thirteenth New Jersey. The latter was named 
Christopher Krubart, a member of Company B. 

These three men were to be killed ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


249 


And we were to kill them ! 

Fortunately for me and fortunately for the victims I 
was not one of the men detailed on the shooting- squad. 
It was fortunate for me, because I would as like as not 
have shot myself in my excitement. It was fortunate for 
the victim, for I would probably have hit him, if I hit him 
at all, in some unimportant part of the body and only help 
to put him in agony, without killing him. 

Before we started for the scene of the execution the 
order announcing the findings of the court martial and the 
approval of the sentence was read impressively to the 
regiment. That this had a moral effect on the men is be- 
yond question. No one could describe the solemnity of 
that event, made all the more solemn from the impressive 
manner in which the order was read by Adjutant Hopkins. 

At 12 o’clock precisely the different regiments of the 
brigade and division were marched out to the place se- 
lected for the execution and formed into a “hollow 
square.” The officers gave their orders in subdued voices, 
and the men obeyed with impressive silence, as the rifles 
were dropped to the ground on the order to “shoulder 
arms.” 

Straight before us we could see the three graves that 
had been dug and into which were soon to he consigned 
the dead and mutilated bodies of three fellow beings who 
at that moment were as alive and full of health and vigor 
as we were. It seemed as if there was an unnecessary de- 
lay in the proceedings. Everything seemed to be done 
with painful deliberation. This was perhaps to lend addi- 
tional impressiveness to the scene. 

There was no use for that. The scene was sufficiently 
impressive as it was. 

Then, moving so slowly that they scarcely moved, came 
in the wagons containing the three qoffins which were soon 
to contain the bodies of the unfortunates. Behind the 
coffins came an ambulance surrounded by armed soldiers. 

In the ambulance, securely manacled, were the three 
doomed victims of the tragedy. They were slowly, almost 
tenderly, assisted from the ambulance, and led to the 
coffins. 

There was a coffin at the head of each of the three 


250 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


graves and the men were seated on the end of the coffins. 
Each man sat on the coffin he was to occupy ! 

Their eyes were blindfolded, their hands fastened to 
their backs, and their legs tied together. They could 
neither move nor see. 

The firing party consisted of thirty-six men in all. 
Eight men were detailed to shoot each deserter, making 
twenty-four to fire at the first order, and the other twelve 
were held back in reserve to finish the horrible work in 
case there was any sign of life after the first volley. 

Not a man of that detail knew whether his gun was 
loaded. This was a merciful provision for such cases. In 
each squad there was one rifle loaded with only a blank 
cartridge. In firing a musket, one cannot tell whether 
there is a bullet in the cartridge or not. If the guns were 
all loaded every man would have it on his mind that he 
had shot a fellow being. With one blank in the squad no 
man knew for sure whether his gun had fired a fatal shot 
or not. 

This left an uncertainty about it that was very consol- 
ing. Every man consoled himself with the idea that he 
had the blank cartridge. The guns had been loaded by the 
officers at the division headquarters and only one or two 
officers knew which of the rifles were really loaded. Even 
they did not know long, for the guns were mixed up in- 
discriminately in a pile, from which each member of the 
firing squad picked a rifle as he was marched past. 

The firing squad marched to the place of execution with 
slow and measured tread, which served to still longer pro- 
long the painful scene and add to the already almost un- 
bearable impressiveness and awfulness of the event. 

Then the death sentence was read again, in a solemn 
manner. Every face in the ranks was pale, and many of 
the men were trembling. In fact some of their knees were 
shaking so that they could hardly stand on their feet. I 
plead guilty to being one of this class. 

At the same time everybody was curious enough to 
watch the condemned men. The handkerchiefs tied over 
their eyes obscured the upper parts, but the lower portions 
could be seen. They were ghastly — not white, but ashen 
and sickly in pallor. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


251 


From the furthermost parts of the “square” the men 
could see the unfortunate and terrified victims trembling. 
One of them was actually shivering, as if he had a severe 
chill. The lips of two could be seen to move slightly, as 
if in prayer. There is little doubt that it was really a 
prayer. 

But not one of them undertook to speak a word aloud. 
They had all evidently made up their minds to die without 
a flinch, without a murmur or protest. 

Such bravery and fortitude as this, displayed on the 
battlefield, would have won them a pair of shoulder straps. 
As it was, it was the ineffable disgrace of being shot as a 
deserter ! 

Chaplain Beck, of the Thirteenth Regiment, offered a 
short prayer for the salvation of the souls of the unfor- 
tunate men, and their lips seemed to move in response to 
every syllable of the supplication. Glancing around fur- 
tively among my companions, I noticed tears trickling 
down many a bronzed and weatherbeaten face. 

The time has arrived ! 

The firing squad were placed in position, only a few 
feet in front of the condemned men — eight men to each de- 
serter. There was a look of determination on the faces 
of the firing party, and yet they were all very pale. They 
all stood at a “shoulder arms.” 

It is usual in giving the order to shoot to say, succes- 
sively, “Ready ! Aim ! Fire !” But in this instance a some- 
what original innovation had been made to the usual rule. 
One of the words was omitted. This was a merciful sur- 
prise, both to the condemned men and the soldiers who 
were compelled to witness the execution. The officer in 
command of the firing party and the members of the latter 
themselves were the only ones who had been informed of 
the change in the order. Consequently it came upon us as 
a big surprise ; I might perhaps better say, a big shock. 

“Ready!” 

So commanded the officer of the firing party. Every 
nerve stretched to its utmost tension as the men in front 
of the condemned wretches brought their pieces up to 
their hips, the hammer at the same time being raised with 
the right hand. 


252 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I felt like shutting my eyes to escape seeing what was 
coming next, but a horrible fascination glued my gaze in- 
tensely to the scene. And I knew of course there was an- 
other command, “aim/’ before the shots were finally fired. 

But no! With a quick, sharp command that gave us all 
a start, which came so unexpectedly that even the con- 
demned deserters probably did not fully comprehend it, 
came the order : 

“Fire !” 

Like lightning twenty-four cocked muskets jumped up 
to twenty-four shoulders. The movement was made with 
marvelous rapidity. Before we could fully comprehend 
what had happened, there was a puff of smoke and the 
three deserters fell over backward on their coffins, or 
rather I should say, almost into them. 

We saw the smoke from the guns before hearing the 
report, of course. It is always that way. The noise of the 
report was heard simultaneously with the sight of the 
dead deserters falling backward. 

As the doomed men fell over they seemed to stiffen 
out convulsively, so that they did not go over bent in the 
sitting posture, but as if they had been standing up, and 
had fallen back like three felled trees. From the distance 
where I stood I could discern no signs of a struggle or 
even a convulsive tremor. Those who were close by failed 
to see even the twitch of a muscle. 

Their deaths must have been instantaneous. It is doubt- 
ful if they even heard the reports of the rifles that shot 
them, for at that distance the speed of a bullet is greater 
than that of sound. 

The effect of the tragedy on the silent witnesses was 
peculiar. Judging from my own sensations, it was one of 
intense relief that it was all over. The solemn and im- 
pressive preliminary preparations were emphatically the 
worst part of the whole transaction. As if a great weight 
had been lifted the sensation was one rather of exhilara- 
tion than of depression, for the time being. 

But this was not permitted to last long. We still had 
another ordeal to pass through, perhaps still worse than 
anything that had preceded it. 

We were marched slowly around and past the bloody 



There was a puff of smoke and the three deserters fell over backward on 

their coffins. 


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bodies of the three executed deserters and compelled to 
gaze upon them as we went by. This was a shuddering 
ordeal, and all the more tended to impress the lesson the 
event had been intended to convey. 

The marksmen had performed their duties well. Each 
one had aimed at a bit of paper pinned over the con- 
demned men's hearts. It will be remembered that seven 
only out of each eight rifles were loaded with bullets. 
When we examined the body of Krubart, the Thirteenth 
Regiment deserter, it was found that the whole seven 
bullets had passed through his body in the immediate 
vicinity of his heart. Any one of them would have caused 
instant death. 

The results in the cases of the others were the same. 
There was no need for the services of the reserves on this 
occasion. 

The bodies were buried like those of dogs. Not a word 
of burial service was said over them. The bodies were 
hurried into the coffins while yet warm, the coffins were 
lowered into the graves, and in a few moments the ground 
was leveled over them. 

No head board or other marker was placed over the 
grave of an executed deserter. He merely became a part 
and parcel of mother earth, and the precise whereabouts 
of his remains were never known afterward. 

We marched back to the spot where we were to camp 
for the night without much talk, but everybody was doing 
a good deal of thinking. What was everybody thinking 
about ? I think the answer can be best given in the laconic 
remark of the ever-ready John Ick : 

“By jimminey, poys,” said he, “des settles it. Ven you 
sees Yon Ick deserting some more alretty, he stays by de 
regiment all de times.” 


254 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

FLOODED OUT. 

It must be admitted that the lesson had a salutary 
effect. There was not much deserting after the execution 
of the three men at Leesburg, and there had been a good 
deal before that time. It seemed hard to sacrifice even 
three lives for such a purpose, but it had become neces- 
sary, and it practically put a stop to the practice for a con- 
siderable time. 

We resumed our tiresome march. Where we were go- 
ing we did not know. It was nothing but getting up early 
in the morning, marching and halting all day long, and 
passing tired nights around sickly fires, half-frozen. 

For the weather was getting cold now. This was add- 
ing another hardship to the boys’ long list of troubles. 
During the daytime when we were on the move it was 
possible to keep comfortable. It was even uncomfortably 
warm in the middle of the day. But the nights were very 
cold. 

Although the blankets and shelter tents and overcoats 
were just as heavy as ever, yet we stuck to them now, 
because they were absolutely necessary for comfort at 
night. I use the word “comfort” with some mental reser- 
vation, for I cannot say we were exactly comfortable at 
all during the night. 

Some one suggested that the Indians slept with their 
feet to the fires and that if the feet were kept warm the 
rest of the body would be comfortable. There was a good 
deal in this, as we found out from experience, but at the 
same time it was not sufficient. The more ordinary prac- 
tice was to sleep with one side turned toward the fires for 
awhile, and then turn the other side, and so on. This 
alternate series of freezing and roasting became the uni- 
versal rule, and as the boys were generally crowded so 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


255 


closely together that they had to lie spoon fashion, it be- 
came a sort of a drill. When one turned over, the other 
had to. 

There are some men who are born to command, 
whether they hold rank or not. This soon became mani- 
fest in this “change side” order. By tacit consent, some 
one particular individual gave the word and it was 
obeyed. No attention was given to it if the suggestion 
came from any other source. This was a singular thing, 
but a fact. Some one soldier, regardless of rank, would 
always be accepted as the leader and commander of these 
petty duties, not in the strict line of military service. 

Several times we had to ford creeks that were quite 
deep. This was not so bad when the weather was mild, 
but when it was cold it added suffering as well as discom- 
fort. Then there was apparently a good deal of unneces- 
sary marching. We would go for a distance along some 
road, and then turn and go another way, as' if the leaders 
had lost their route. This made a good deal of grumbling. 

We passed through Chantilly, which had once before 
been the scene of a battle, and through several other places 
that were big enough to be honored with a name and that 
is about all. Finally, about the 25th of December, we 
reached the Occoquan creek at a place called Wolf Run 
Shoals. 

Here we had an experience worth describing. 

During the night a tremendous storm arose. It was one 
of the worst I ever remember. 

I plainly recall my own experience that night. John 
Butterworth (my pard) and myself had pitched our little 
“pup” tent on the side of a hill at the bottom of which was 
a good-sized creek or brook. 

It was in a piece of woods that had evidently not been 
occupied by troops before, for the trees were standing, and 
the ground was covered with dry twigs and leaves. The 
skies were overcast and the air was damp and chilly, but 
we did not think that there was going to be a very big 
storm. 

“I tell you, Joe,” said Butterworth, “we're lucky to get 
this good place to-night. See the leaves I have gathered 
for a bed. It beats a spring mattress. There’s many a poor 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


256 

fellow at home that hasn’t such a good place to sleep in 
as this.” 

“Yes,” I replied, pulling the blanket up under my chin, 
“and this slope of the ground is just right. It brings our 
heads higher than our feet, which makes it more comfort- 
able. I’m glad I didn’t throw away my blanket in to-day’s 
tramp, aren’t you?” 

“You bet I don’t throw away mine while the cold 
weather remains,” said Butterworth. “It is pretty tough 
sometimes during the day, but they come in mighty handy 
at night, I can tell you.” 

“Don’t you think it is going to rain to-night ?” I asked. 

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” replied John. “But then what 
do we care? We have a good tent, plenty of blankets, a 
soft bed, and even a canteen full of spring water, for I 
filled the canteen fresh just before I turned in.” 

“Where is the canteen?” I asked. “I want to get a drink 
now.” 

“Hanging right over your head,” said he, “on the tent 
pole.” 

I took a good drink of the refreshing draft, and John 
was right, for it was as fine a specimen of spring water as 
I ever tasted. 

We talked a little while on commonplace subjects and 
soon fell soundly to sleep. Soldiers were too tired out on 
such occasions to indulge in much talking after they were 
in bed, and when they once got asleep they slept soundly. 
Only those who have had that experience can fully appre- 
ciate the soundness of the sleep of a tired soldier. 

I was awakened during the night some time by the 
sound of the rain falling in torrents. The wind blew a 
gale and fairly howled through the branches of the trees 
over our heads. I felt uncomfortably chilly, and turning 
over to find what was the matter, found the blankets both 
under and over me soaking wet. 

“What’s the matter now, Joe?” asked Butterworth, 
waking up. 

“I guess that confounded old canteen of yours has 
sprung a leak,” said I, “for the blankets are all wet.” 

We made an examination and found the canteen all 



A more forlorn and unhappy lot of men it would be hard to conceive. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


257 


right, but as we sat up, there was a very uncomfortable 
sensation of water trickling down our backs. 

“Phew !” said Butterworth* “here’s a pretty mess. The 
tent has sprung a leak. The blankets are soaked and so 
am I. I am wet through.” 

“You’re no wetter than I am, I guess,” I replied. “Let’s 
get up and see what is the matter.” 

We pulled the blankets from the ground and found a 
stream of water running through the tent. It was run- 
ning through by the pailful. It will be remembered that 
we were in such a “nice place” on the side of the hill, and 
the water was running down through the tent like a 
brook. 

We got outside. It was better to be standing out in the 
rain than it was to be lying there in a brook. We found 
the entire regiment up and standing under the trees, each 
man wrapped in his rubber blanket, to protect himself as 
well as he might from the pelting rainfall. 

A more forlorn and unhappy lot of men it would be 
hard to conceive. There we were, in the middle of the 
night, in a desolate woods, with the rain falling in perfect 
torrents. And how it did rain! It came down by the 
bucketful ! 

“I haf change my mind alretty,” said John Ick. “I be- 
lief I will desert alretty, so soon by I got chances.” 

“What’s the matter now, John?” I asked. 

“Dot’s vot I said alretty,” he answered. “Dose fellers 
vat vas deserted vas died und dond haf to go through by 
dot rainstorm all the times. Dey vash happy, und ve 


“That’s true, John,” I said. “They are dead and maybe 
they are happy. I can’t tell about that. And we are not 
very happy. There’s no denying that. But at the same 
time wouldn’t you rather be a live soldier than a dead sol- 
dier? And maybe perhaps those dead fellows are not 
happy after all. Maybe they went to the other place, 
where the people are not so happy, according to general 
belief.” 

“I dond care, neider,” said John. “Dose fellers vas 
warm if dey goes by dot under places vat you says dond 
vas so happy be. Dey vas warm and dry und ve vas vet 


258 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


und cold alretty. Ya, I wish I vas dead all the times. I 
change my minds. I vas goin’ to desert so soon by the 
storm vas over.” 

There was no getting over this argument. The exe- 
cuted deserters might be in purgatory, as Ick said, but if 
they were, it was a good dry place. And a dry place, in 
our present frame of mind, comprised all the essential ele- 
ments of complete happiness. 

But John didn’t desert, then or afterward. He was, as 
a rule, a good soldier, despite all his talk. 

We tried many times to light a fire, but were unable to 
do so. Everything was so water-soaked that nothing 
would burn. We passed through a miserable night, and 
when it came daylight, although the storm let up a little, 
we were a miserable lot, soaked to the skin, shivering, un- 
comfortable and hungry, for it was even impossible to get 
enough of a fire to boil coffee for breakfast. 

But, sleep or no sleep, wet or dry, hungry or surfeited, 
the operations of the army must proceed. The relentless 
march must go on. Whatever spot we were aiming for 
must be reached. 

And so, wet and tired, hungry, listless, depressed and 
enervated, we mechanically obeyed the order to — 

“Fall in, Thirteenth!” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


259 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

RATHER MUDDY. 

But we didn’t march very far that day. When night 
came again we were not more than two miles from where 
we started in the morning. 

And now for the first time we encountered what was 
a genuine specimen of “Virginia mud.” We thought we 
had seen Virginia mud before, but all previous experi- 
ences were a farce in comparison. 

The storm had cleared off. That is, the rain had stopped 
falling, although the skies were still overcast. It was but 
a short distance from where we had camped for the night 
to the ford at Wolf Run Shoals, over the Occoquan 
creek. 

It was called a ford, because in ordinary seasons the 
water is only a foot or so deep, and the place was used for 
a crossing for wagons. The economical Virginia grangers 
never wasted county appropriations in building bridges 
when they could find a place shallow enough to wade 
across. And they would go miles out of their way to reach 
the ford. 

The spot was called Wolf Run on account of a tradition 
that in former days it used to be a favorite haunt for the 
wild ancestors of the domestic dog. But we saw no 
wolves. Neither did we see any ford. 

On the contrary we encountered a raging creek. Us- 
ually it was but a foot or so deep. Now it was several 
feet deep, and the water was rushing through with the 
speed of a tail race. 

The mounted officers rode across, although the water 
was high enough to have wet their feet if they had not 
held them up. But the main portion of the vast army was 
not mounted. It was not a big enough stream to use pon- 
toon bridges, and there was not time to construct a regu- 


260 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


lar army truss bridge, for we were in a hurry. It was a 
part of the movement somehow or other connected with 
the Fredericksburg campaign. 

As things turned out it would have saved time for the 
officers to have stopped the entire army for a day or so 
and built substantial bridges. But then everybody’s fore- 
sight isn’t as good as his hindsight, not even an army 
officer’s. 

There were plenty of large trees growing along the 
edge of the creek and some bright genius suggested that 
these trees be felled in such a way as to fall across the 
stream and let the troops go over these logs. 

I was not a general. I was not even a commissioned 
officer. I was “only a private.” 

But if even with my ignorance I could not have devised 
something better than that I think I would have been 
ashamed of myself. The idea of marching an army of sev- 
eral thousand soldiers across a log over a stream of water, 
and in a hurry at that, was simply ridiculous. 

And yet that is just what was attempted. I forget how 
many of these primitive bridges were thrown across the 
creek. Perhaps eight or ten. They were big trees, eighteen 
inches or two feet in diameter. 

I saw the first two or three men cross. With their heavy 
rifles, their knapsacks and various accouterments, they 
had about all they could do to walk along a country road, 
let alone balance themselves on something only a trifle 
better than a tight rope. It took perhaps a minute for a 
man to get over. 

The first three or four went across with comparative 
ease. Then the dripping clothes and the muddy shoes of 
the men began to besmear the round top of the logs, and 
they became perilously slippery. From that moment it be- 
came something like a man trying to walk along the top of 
a rail fence with a pair of roller skates on his feet. 

About every third man slipped off into the water and 
of course that was not a very pleasant thing. As I said be- 
fore, the stream was deep and the current was swift. The 
first two or three unfortunates were nearly drowned, 
hampered as they were with their cumbersome accouter- 
ments. So, below each of the log bridges, they estab- 
lished a cordon of cavalry, to catch and fish out the men 



About every third man slipped off into the water. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


261 

as they slipped off. Fully one-half the men consequently 
got on the other side drenched to the skin. 

It was very tedious. We had to wait for an hour or so 
after reaching the stream to get a chance to cross, for it 
could only be done one by one, as may be imagined. And 
after getting to the other side we had to wait for the rest 
of our companions. I think of all the experiences I ever 
had in the marching line this took the premium. 

I felt sure that I would be one of the fellows to slip off 
the log and go into the water, but I didn’t. Although I 
slipped and scrambled and twisted myself into all imagin- 
able shapes in keeping my balance, I managed to get over 
somehow, and took my place with those waiting for the 
others to come over. 

Then and there we indulged in the customary kicking, 
and the army, the war and everything connected with it 
was cursed uphill and down. If Jeff Davis had come 
around just then he would have met with a warm receptiofi 
from a disgusted army. The loudest in their imprecations 
were of course those who had tumbled into the creek and 
were wet to the skin and shivering with the cold, as they 
tried to dry themselves by the sickly fires that had been 
kindled. 

In the meantime the wagons were coming across by 
fording. Each wagon and team naturally brought up out 
of the creek its quota of water, which dropped off on the 
banks as they emerged from the creek. This was a little 
thing at first, but wagon after wagon and team after team 
soon had the ground saturated, not only close by the creek, 
but for some distance up the side of the banks. 

The wheels of the heavy baggage wagons, wearing into 
this, mixed it over and over again, till the mud got deeper 
and deeper. First it was a few inches deep. Then it 
worked down till it was a foot deep. Soon it was up to 
the hubs of wheels. It did not take long to work the mass 
till it came up to the bellies of the mules and the bodies of 
the baggage wagons. 

The mud grew thinner and thinner till it was of the 
consistency of paste. Its color was a bright red, as Vir- 
ginia mud usually is. Not only did it grow deeper and 
deeper, but the slough extended further and further until 
it was fully a quarter of a mile in length, if not more. 


262 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


It was muddy all over that part of the country at that 
particular time. In the wet season the normal constituent 
of the State was mud. But I am now talking of more than 
ordinary mud. The sort I am trying to describe is the 
regular old army mud, such as was only seen by the sol- 
diers on the march. 

It was not long before the mud was too deep for an 
ordinary six-mule team to drag the wagons through. 
Teams from other wagons would be unhitched to help 
those still in the sloughs. I have seen not only twelve, but 
frequently twenty-four mules attached to a baggage 
wagon to pull it out of a mud hole, and on the particular 
day I am talking about I saw thirty-six mules attached to 
one wagon, and yet unable to budge it. 

It was in such a place as this that the mule would be- 
come discouraged and lay himself down and die, as I have 
described in a previous chapter. 

It was in this place and on this occasion that originated 
the following incident, which perhaps some of my readers 
have heard before : 

Out in the middle of the road, resting apparently in a 
mud puddle where it had been left, lay a brand new army 
hat of the “slouch” pattern. A soldier whose hat was 
somewhat the worse for wear caught sight of this, and 
decided to secure it. The mud was too deep for him to 
wade out for the hat and so he got a long pole from the 
woods and reached out for the hat with the pole, as if he 
were fishing. 

As he lifted the hat on the end of the pole the soldier 
was astonished to see that he had exposed a human head. 
And not only a head, but a very much alive one at that, 
with the mouth in good working order. 

“Here you,” shouted the head, “what are you about 
there? Put that hat right back where you got it!” 

“I didn’t know you were there,” replied the soldier who 
had just fished off the hat, as he tried to wiggle the pole 
around so that it would fall back on the head. 

“I didn’t know there was anything under that hat. 
Don’t you want some one to help you out of the mud ?” 

“N-no, I g-guess not,” said the man in the mud non- 
chalantly, “I have a good horse under me, and I guess he 
will bring me out all right after awhile !” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


263 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

AN UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT. 

I don't know if that man’s good horse ever brought 
him safely out of the mud, but I do know that the story 
is not so much of an exaggeration as it might appear at 
first glance. No amount of extravagant description could 
greatly exaggerate the depth, diabolical character and gen- 
eral cussedness of Virginia mud. 

A soldier cannot march in boots. Experience soon 
proved that the only proper footgear was a broad, low-cut 
shoe. This was of course no protection to the mud. The 
usual custom was to pull the woolen stocking up on the 
outside of the trousers, forming a sort of legging. That 
protected the bottom of the pantaloons, and made march- 
ing easier. But as may be imagined the shoes were soon 
full of mud and water and one’s feet were constantly in 
soak. 

In civil life it is supposed to be a dangerous thing to 
go long with wet feet, but some kind Providence must 
have inured the soldier to this. None seemed to be much 
the worse for it. Of all the ailments of life ordinary colds 
were the least troublesome to the soldier after he had be- 
come once hardened to the service. 

But that it must have had an effect on the health is evi- 
dent from the large number of veterans to-day who are 
suffering from rheumatism and kindred ailments, all un- 
questionably the result of the exposure suffered while in 
the army. 

That day, with mud and wet and the cold, was one 
of the hardest we ever experienced. In ordinary times we 
would have thought little of a twenty-mile march in a 
day, but on that particular day we did not make more 
than two miles, and when night came we were completely 
exhausted with the fatigue of the day. 


264 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


We went into camp that night within a mile of the 
crossing at Wolf Run Shoals, and not two miles from 
where we had slept the night before on the hillside, where 
the rain poured down our backs. It wasn’t a jolly crowd 
that night. Everything was wet through. It was almost 
impossible to find a piece of wood dry enough to burn. 
Butterworth and I, however, managed to discover and cut 
down a couple of good-sized sassafras trees. These, no 
matter how wet, will burn like pine, although they make a 
terrible smoke. 

Of all the trees that grow in the woods, none will bum 
as readily when green as sassafras, a fact which the rising 
generation should remember, as it might be of use to them 
in case there is ever another war — which God forbid. 

Poor, clumsy John Ick was of course one of the fellows 
who had fallen off the slippery log into the creek and got 
wet through. This nearly led to a fatal disruption between 
him and his “pard,” Reddy Mahar. 

“Ye clumsy blackguard,” said Reddy, “couldn’t ye kape 
on ye’re feet loike a sober man. How d’ye suppose Oi’me 
a-goin’ to sleep wid ye this night ?” 

“I dond care, needer,” said Ick, “you can schleeps where 
you likes. You dond have some tents to schleep mit, un- 
der you dond schleep by me, all the times.” 

“The divil I don’t. Half uf that tint is moin, and Oi’ll 
roll meself up inside uf it, and no thanks to ye for a favor, 
ye spalpeen.” 

“No, you dond, needer. Both pieces by dot tent vas 
mine. Dond you remember dot you loose your tents de 
udder night, Reddy ?” 

“Oi didn’t lose my tent at all at all, you old slaughter 
house. Half uf that tint is moin, and ye know it.” 

“Nein. You vas mistooken, Reddy. You know you lose 
your halluf de udder day, und you dond draw some more 
from the quartermaster alretty.” 

“Ye can’t come that over me, ye spalpeen,” answered 
Reddy, as he proceeded to seize half the “pup” tent from 
Ick. John grabbed the other end, and they began to pull 
on the two sides of the piece of canton flannel. 

The language that ensued between the two during the 
scramble that took place for the possession of that piece 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


265 


of tent was altogether unparliamentary. It was a funny 
conglomeration of Celtic and Teutonic, and beat any 
character dialect acting that was ever placed on the variety 
stage. 

You have perhaps seen the picture of the pug dog and 
the baby tugging at the two legs of the rag doll, and if 
you have you no doubt remember the fate of the doll. 
Well, that was the fate of the piece of “pup” tent. It came 
in two and was torn to pieces in the struggle. 

Then a grab was made for the other half of the tent, 
and before long it met the same fate. That was torn to 
pieces also. 

After the mischief had been done, the two belligerents 
gazed upon the ruin^ and then looked each other in the 
face for a moment as a curious expression came over their 
countenances. 

“John,” said Reddy, whose sense of the ludicrous al- 
ways overcame his animosity on such occasions, “we’re a 
pair of fools, that’s phwat’s we are.” 

“And I vas anudder, Reddy,” replied Ick. 

That settled the difficulty then and there. The two 
worthies shook hands cordially, and were extravagantly 
profuse in offering each other the use of their blankets for 
the night. Reddy and John had no tent at all that night, 
nor for a number of nights afterward, in consequence of 
that disastrous quarrel, but they were closer friends than 
ever. Although Ick was wet through, and must have been 
a very uncomfortable bedfellow, they slept that night as 
close as brothers, and not a word of complaint was heard 
on either side, although they must have been anything 
but comfortable. 

This is only one of the many examples of the peculiar 
incompatibility of these strange “pards.” They were al- 
ways quarreling and there was scarcely a day that they 
did not have a fight. They did not seem to be able to 
agree upon anything. And yet, if any one abused one of 
them, the other always took it up, and behind the uncouth, 
incongruous exterior there was a depth of friendship that 
was astonishing. 

There was many another soldier that night that had a 
wet “pard,” although there was not the same way adopted 


2 66 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


for the settlement of the matter as in the case of Mahar 
and Ick. But if there was anybody comfortable and happy 
in camp that night I did not hear of it. In the course of 
my war experience I do not think that patriotism was ever 
at a lower ebb than it was that night. 

We were glad enough when it was morning. Then we 
learned that not half the army had been got across the 
creek, and it had been decided during the night by the 
officers in command to retrace our steps and take some 
other route. 

This was one of the things that always disgusted the 
soldier — to spend a whole day getting somewhere and 
then immediately go back again. We could not under- 
stand the why and wherefore of such things of course, al- 
though there must have been some reason. But the why 
and wherefore was not explained to the private soldiers. 

“Their’s not to reason why, 

Their’s but to do and die.” 

It did not take so long to get back, for the weather was 
still colder and the mud had partially dried and partially 
frozen, so that it was not near as deep as it was the pre- 
vious day. The water in the creek had also gone down so 
that it could be forded, and many crossed that way, al- 
though I stuck to the log and again managed to get across 
without tumbling off. We marched some distance further 
back that day, and before night reached Fairfax Station, a 
place where we were to remain for awhile, it was said, as 
the weather was getting too cold for army movements. 

And as we marched into camp that night it began to 
snow. It was a tradition that it did not snow very often 
in that part of the country; it did that afternoon, and it 
snowed as hard as I ever saw it snow in the North. 

Here was another new experience. We had suffered 
from the intense heat of the sun and we had gone through 
some pretty cold nights already. We had been drenched 
to the skin in the rain and half-drowned from fording 
creeks. But this was the first time we had even encoun- 
tered a snowstorm. 

Although it might not be thought to be a fact, yet it is 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


267 


not nearly as cold to be outdoors in an ordinary snow- 
storm as when it is a clear cold. The principal inconveni- 
ence was in the fact that the snow covered up the twigs 
and little sticks in the woods which were so useful in 
kindling and maintaining fires in camp. 

But the ever-willing Butterworth, “my pard,” hustled 
through under the trees, pushing the snow from the 
ground with his feet, and gathered a big armful of small 
branches and brushes while I went to the nearest stream 
and filled the canteens. We put up the “pup” tent and had 
everything fixed nicely for the night, and were preparing 
to cook some lobscouse for supper, when to my intense 
disgust I heard my named called to go on picket. 

So, donning my haversack and equipments, and defer- 
ring my supper till later, I fell in line, with my com- 
panions, and started for — no soldier knows where he 
starts for! 


268 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER L. 

A LESSON IN GUERRILLAS. 

On the way to the picket headquarters we were cau- 
tioned to be careful, as although the main portion of the 
rebel army was some distance from that spot, yet there 
had been some evidences of guerrillas around and they 
might make a raid upon us at any moment. 

“What are guerrillas?” I imagine I hear the reader ask. 

Guerrillas were isolated detachments of the cavalry of 
the enemy. They did not seem to be connected with any 
main branch of the Confederate army, but conducted the 
war on a sort of a go-as-you-please principle. They rode 
in detachments of from fifty to five hundred men. 

The guerrillas particularly infesting the Virginia cam- 
paign were Moseby’s, Morgan’s, Stuart’s, and Wheeler’s. 
They were generally called “men,” that is, “Moseby’s 
men,” “Stuart’s men,” etc. A rumor that any of these 
bushwackers were in the neighborhood always put the sol- 
diers on the alert. 

The particular province of the guerrillas was to harass 
the Northern army. I suppose there were similar guer- 
rillas on the Northern side, but we did not come across 
them, of course. In the Union army, if there were such 
things, they were given the more dignified appellation of 
“skirmishing parties.” 

The guerrillas also perhaps made it a part of their busi- 
ness to take hasty surveys of the Union forces, positions 
and strength. They would suddenly dash down upon our 
camps, generally in the night time, and galloping through 
the lines would cut and slash and shoot after the manner 
of a lot of Western cowboys on a round-up through some 
small, out-of-the-way settlement. 

Their appearance was generally so sudden and unex- 
pected that it found the Union soldiers unprepared for it. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


269 


They would dash through the picket lines, rush through 
the camps, and then as suddenly disappear, before our 
lines could be formed to drive them off. Cavalry has no 
chance to fight against infantry when the latter is once 
formed into a “hollow square,” but that takes some time 
to form, and the guerrillas would have disappeared before 
the boys had received the orders to fall in. 

There was one good thing about the guerrillas. Their 
proximity always served to make the soldiers more on 
the alert. The report that guerrillas had been seen around 
always kept the pickets and everybody else on the qui vive. 

Our picket post was a very lonesome spot at the edge 
of a woods. It continued to snow quite hard and the 
ground was covered to the depth of several inches. We 
managed to start a fire, however, and made ourselves as 
comfortable as possible under the circumstances. 

I was on the second relief and did not have to go on 
post till 11 o’clock. We thought it was no use trying to 
get any sleep before starting out, we fellows on the second 
relief, and consequently sat around the fire, after cooking 
some coffee, and indulged in talk. 

“Those guerrillas,” said one of the Third Wisconsin 
boys to me, as we sat there smoking our pipes, “are a 
derned nuisance. I remember once before the Second Bull 
Run they made a raid through our camp and gave us the 
derndest scare you ever saw. We were a sittin’ around the 
first just like this, when all of a suddint there was a whoop 
and a hurrah, and a lot of shootin’. Then the guerrillas 
dashed through us, firing and slashing and yelling like In- 
juns. None of us was shot, but one of the Twenty-seventh 
Infantry boys got a slash on the arm with a saber. They 
was right through us afore we could do anything. Then 
they dashed down through camp, clear through, mind you, 
with their yelling and racket, and went out of the other 
side, and all so suddint that not a single one of them was 
shot.” 

“What is the sense of it all?” I asked. “What object 
have they in making these rushes through camp ?” 

“Derned if I know,” replied the veteran. “Pure cussed- 
ness, I guess. If they find there’s only a small force they 
will grab up everything they can carry. If there is a big 


270 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


army lying around they simply dash through. I guess it is 
simply to find out how many there are on our side and per- 
haps to give us a little scarce.” 

“Do they ever attack the picket posts?” I asked some- 
what nervously. 

“Oh, yes, that’s their main hold. One time down on the 
Peninsula they raided the post I was on, wounding the 
sergeant and one of the men, and they grabbed our 
blankets and haversacks and guns and skedaddled before 
we could say beans. Say, I’d rather go into a good-sized 
battle than be raided by guerrillas. Not that there is so 
much danger, but it gives a fellow such a scare, you know, 
and you don’t get over it for some time. Somehow after 
you have once been raided by guerrillas you have no con- 
fidence in yourself for a long time, especially when you 
are out on some lonesome post on a dark night.” 

“Do you think we are likely to have any guerrillas 
around to-night?” I asked. I was beginning to feel a very 
lively personal interest in the matter, considering the fact 
that I would have to go on post in a short time. 

“I wouldn’t be much surprised,” was the reply. “I 
heard the officers say as how guerrillas had been seen 
near by some of the skirmishers, and it kind o’ looked as 
if they might be along this way afore mornin’. But then 
we will keep on the lookout for them.” 

“Isn’t it rather dangerous to have a fire burning like 
this, so that they can see where we are ?” I asked. 

“Well, I don’t think as how that makes much difference. 
They would come anyhow, fire or no fire. And say, if a 
fellow was going to go without a fire simply because there 
might be guerrillas around, he would freeze to death be- 
fore the winter was over. We have to take chances on 
that.” 

“But then a man is in more danger when he is out 
alone on post, isn’t he?” I asked. 

“To be sure, pard,” was the encouraging reply. “You 
have to keep your eyes open. But then you can hear the 
tramp of the horses long before they are near, unless they 
have the hoofs muffled, which they sometimes do. Then 
you can hardly hear them till they are close on top of 
you.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


271 


“What do you mean by having their hoofs muffled ?” I 
asked wonderingly. 

“Why, they sometimes have sort o’ cushions or pads on 
the feet of their horses, and they go along softly, like a 
man wearing gum shoes. They don't do this very often, 
you know, but they do sometimes, and then they make 
scarcely any noise at all. An old soldier, however, soon 
gets to know the guerrillas are coming even with the 
horses’ hoofs muffled, if they only learn how and keep a 
close watch.” 

“How do they do that?” I asked. I was getting inter- 
ested. 

“The weight of the horse as he comes down when on 
the gallop makes a sort of thud, you see, and although it 
is little, it jars the ground just enough to feel it. You hear 
them through your feet. If you suspect that there is some- 
thing of the sort going on, just plant yourself solid on the 
ground, both heels down. Don’t raise on your toes, but 
put your whole weight on your heels. Then the sound of 
the cavalry a-comin’ will go up through your legs.” 

“It’s just the same if they are galloping toward you 
through the mud or over soft ground ?” I suggested. 

“No, it isn’t, either. When galloping through soft 
ground there is a sort of a kerchuck and a suckin’ as the 
hoofs come out of the muck, that you can hear quite a dis- 
tance on a still night. And then with the ground muddy 
and soft you can’t hear them coming by the sound passing 
through your legs, as I have said. It is only on solid 
ground with the hoofs muffled that you can hear the rum- 
ble through your legs when you can’t hear them with your 
ears.” 

“But can’t you hear the rattle of the sabres and other 
things ? I have noticed that there is always a considerable 
lot of jingling with a company of cavalry.” 

“Oh, they have them things muffled too,” was the reply. 
“When they muffle the hoofs, they muffle everything else, 
and come along like a lot o’ spooks. As I said afore, the 
only way you can hear them is through your legs, with 
your feet firmly planted on the ground.” 

“Do you think it likely that we will be visited by any 


272 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of these fellows to-night?” I asked, as unconcernedly as 
I could. 

“Shouldn’t be surprised, pard,” was the answer; “I 
heard the officers say as they thought we would likely 
have a scrimmage with them before long, and the way 
we have moved about lately is another sign that there are 
some rebs not very far off. But you and I have to go on 
the second relief and then we’ll find out. Better be careful 
to-night and keep a close watch, and remember what I’ve 
been telling you about listening with your feet as well as 
with your ears.” 

“I will that,” I replied. “And I am much obliged for 
the information you have given me to-night, for it is 
something I never heard of before, and I might have been 
caught napping, for I never heard of horses having their 
hoofs muffled.” 

“It’s a fact, all the same, and ” 

“Fall in, second relief !” 

This interrupted the conversation, and we strapped on 
our cartridge belts and picked up our rifles to go on 
picket, perhaps to be attacked by the hated guerrillas. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


273 


CHAPTER LI. 

'Tm not afraid.” 

It was an awfully lonesome place where I was posted 
on picket at 1 1 o’clock that night. It struck me that it was 
the furthermost post of the entire picket line. At all events 
I was the last men of our detail to be posted and I could 
neither see nor hear any one further out. 

The snow was falling, but not so hard as it had been. 
It was not as dark as it would have been had there been 
no snow on the ground, but there were obstacles in the 
way of my seeing very far. 

My post was alongside a clump of small trees, scarcely 
more than bushes. About fifty yards behind me was the 
woods, but I did not anticipate attack from that direction, 
as there lay the Union army. About a quarter of a mile in 
front there was another wood, and about half way be- 
tween there was a stone fence, perhaps four or five feet in 
height. 

After the snow had stopped falling so thickly, I could 
see quite plainly as far as the stone fence, and that par- 
ticular thing was the object of my most earnest solicitude. 
I could not help thinking that there might be some rebels 
concealed behind that excellent breastwork. 

Then I remembered what the old veteran of the Third 
Wisconsin had been saying to me. It struck me that a 
horse with muffled hoofs would make very little noise gal- 
loping over ground covered with three or four inches of 
snow, and that made me all the more watchful. 

I commenced to practice the art of hearing through my 
legs as I had been instructed. I shuffled a clear place in 
the snow and stood on my heels with legs stiffened out till 
they became lame. I paced up and down my beat and at 
each end and about the middle, stopped to listen, first with 
ears, and then by standing still, resting the weight on my 


274 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


stiffened legs, and straining every sense of observation 
and conception to see if I could distinguish any unusual 
noise, or any abnormal trembling of the ground. 

But everything remained as still as a graveyard. Every- 
body knows how snow muffles all sounds, even in a big 
city. There out in the country, at midnight, alone, in a 
dismal corner, the stillness was oppressive. It was almost 
supernatural. The sense of the loneliness was intense. 

Now and then, as we simultaneously reached the ends 
of our respective beats, I could catch a glance of my next 
companion on the picket line, and we would exchange a 
few words. We had been cautioned to keep very quiet and 
listen intently all night, but this became unbearable, and 
finally when I came up, after several turns, and again met 
my neighboring picket, I was glad to hear him suggest 
that we stop and have a talk. 

He was a member of the Second Massachusetts. This 
regiment was composed almost entirely of college boys. 
Nine-tenths of the members left college with Colonel Gor- 
don to go to the war. Consequently in intelligence and 
general information that regiment probably had no equal 
in the entire army. 

My companion was a young fellow, not over nineteen 
years of age, only a little older than myself. He was a 
delicate-looking, refined young fellow, and had an enter- 
taining manner of talking, strikingly different from the 
language of the uncouth Western men belonging to the 
Wisconsin and Indiana regiments of our brigade. 

“It seems to be very quiet out here to-night, partner,” 
said he. He didn’t even use the ordinary abbreviation and 
say “pard.” 

“It is,” I replied. “And I have been listening with all 
my ears and legs for the guerrillas they said might be 
around to-ilight.” 

“So have I. They said that there were guerrillas in this 
vicinity during the afternoon and I was told to be very 
careful, but so far I have never seen a quieter night. I 
haven’t even heard or seen any signs of a ’coon or 
’possum. How do you like this sort of life, anyhow ?” 

“I can’t say that I like it at all,” I replied, honestly. 
“Especially on such a night as this.” 



I was not a little startled, however, when the approaching horsemen 
made their sudden appearance. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


2 75 


“It isn’t such a bad night,” said my companion. “I 
would a good deal rather have this sort of weather than a 
hard rain.” 

“I don’t know but I would, too,” I answered, “but I was 
speaking generally. I don’t like picket duty anyhow. A 
fellow never knows what is going to happen and has to 
keep on the alert.” 

“That’s so, but then there really isn’t as much danger 
as one would suppose. I have been on picket a good deal, 
and never yet had any trouble but once, and that was just 
before the Second Bull Run, when the rebel guerrillas 
made a skirmish upon us and drove us back. That is the 
only time I ever had the least trouble, or even a scare.” 

“Did you ever hear of the guerrillas coming down upon 
you in the night with their horses’ hoofs muffled?” I 
asked. And I explained what the Wisconsin soldier had 
told me. 

“Yes, I’ve often heard of that,” he answered, “but to 
tell the truth I never met a fellow who actually saw it. I 
don’t see how — Hark ! What is that ?” 

I was much startled at the sudden manner in which he 
had interrupted his own conversation. We both listened 
intently. 

It was the sound of galloping horses, and not muffled 
at that. We also heard the unmistakable clanking of the 
sword scabbards as they jingled around against the stir- 
rups of the saddles. 

The clanking of cavalry sabers is an unmistakable 
sound. No one who had once heard it could be misled 
as to what it was. 

My companion hurried down a little further on his own 
post, while I sneaked back to the little clump of trees re- 
ferred to. The sound of the clanking swords sounded 
louder and louder as the cavalry, whatever it was, came 
nearer. 

Whatever it was it apparently made no attempt to be 
quiet. There was no muffled hoof business about this, 
that was sure. 

I was not a little startled, however, when the approach- 
ing horsemen made their sudden appearance around a 
bend in the woods. It did not strike me at the moment 


276 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


that they were coming from the Union side of the line, or I 
might have inferred what it was. 

I cocked my rifle, however, to be ready for any emer- 
gency, and determined to put on as brave a front as pos- 
sible, although to tell the truth I was shaking. 

I remember that it struck me then that there was some- 
thing wrong about the tactics and regulations for a man 
on picket. Instead of first crying “Who comes there?” 
and then shooting in case the answer was not satisfactory, 
I thought the operation ought to be reversed— in other 
words, the shooting to come first and the inquiry after. 
It would have given a fellow a good deal better chance 
for his life, at times. 

But I waited until the party, ten or fifteen horsemen, 
came within hailing distance, and then cried out : 

“Who comes there ?” 

“The grand rounds,” 

This answer almost took me off my feet. In the first 
place it was rather an unusual thing for the grand rounds 
to be mounted, and then I had become so worked up on 
the subject of guerrillas that such a thing as grand 
rounds had entirely slipped from my mind. 

The unexpectedness of the reply to my challenge, as 
well as the sudden relief from the tension when I found 
that it was friends and not enemies that were confronting 
me, as I said before, almost threw me off my feet with 
astonishment. I imagined that my voice was a little 
shaky when I gave the next salutation: 

“Officer of the grand rounds, dismount, and give the 
countersign.” 

It was the rule, at that time at least, when the grand 
rounds came on horseback, for the officer in charge or 
whoever else was delegated to “take up the password,” to 
approach the picket on foot. Otherwise it would give the 
person approaching the picket an undue advantage had he 
been other than friendly. 

The officer dismounted, shambled through the snow 
and said “Trenton” over my musket at a half-charge bayo- 
net, and I continued with the usual permission for the 
remainder of the grand rounds to approach. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


277 


“Everything quiet out here?” asked the officer of the 
grand rounds. 

“Everything quiet, sir,” I answered. “I haven’t seen 
or heard of anything unusual whatever.” 

“All right, then ; but keep a close lookout, for there are 
unquestionably guerrillas about. There have been some 
suspicious movements in front of one of the posts further 
down. You can’t be too careful, my man.” 

“All right, sir,” I replied bravely; “I’ll keep a close 
lookout for them. I’m not afraid !” 

I am rather inclined to think that I lied a little when 
I said that. 


278 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LII. 

CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Despite the repeated warnings of the officers, we saw 
nothing in the shape of guerrillas or anything else unusual 
that night. It was more than ordinarily quiet. Shortly 
after the departure of the grand rounds it began to snow 
hard again, and it was so supernaturally still and quiet that 
I almost imagined that I felt the flakes strike as they fell. 
The rustle of a twig breaking from a tree with the weight 
of the accumulating snow upon it could be heard some 
distance, so still was the air. 

It would have been a bad night for an attack of guer- 
rillas under such circumstances, although that did not 
strike me at the time. 

My feet were becoming painfully cold and I was getting 
chilled through and generally disgusted when the approach 
of the third relief gave me the welcome signal that my 
turn was over and that it was 1 o’clock. 

The picket post headquarters, when I returned to it, did 
not present a very inviting appearance. The fire had gone 
down till it was little more than a pile of smouldering 
embers, and all the good places had been pre-empted by 
others. They lay in a circle with their feet to the fire, 
and some of them were snoring with a noise that would 
have made a Silsby steam fire engine envious. 

The sleeping men stretched around the fire presented a 
curious aspect. While the heat from the fire had melted 
the snow from their feet and the lower part of their legs, 
their heads and shoulders were completely covered. In 
fact they looked like piles of snow, with human legs stick- 
ing out of their sides. 

Then I noticed for the first time another curious circum- 
stance. 

Each soldier as he lay down to sleep had pulled the 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


279 


cape of his blue overcoat over his head, which protected 
that part of the body from the falling snow. When cov- 
ered it resembled a small snowdrift. 

But right in the middle of the top of each of these 
miniature mountains there was a small round hole which 
gave it the appearance of a baby volcano. Had it been 
daylight it would have all the more resembled a volcano, 
for steam would have been seen issuing from the “crater.” 

“What are those holes for?” I asked my friend of the 
Third Wisconsin, who, being an old soldier, was supposed 
to know all about everything. 

“Those are breathing holes,” he answered. “They let 
the air in.” 

“But,” I asked, “how is a fellow to keep those holes 
open after he is asleep? Won’t he smother if somebody 
don’t attend to it?” 

My companion laughed heartily at my ignorance. 

“Why, you goose,” said he, “those holes make them- 
selves. The breath coming out of your mouth keeps them 
open. No matter how fast it snows, the warm breath 
melts it away above the mouth and keeps the air hole 
open.” 

“Then how is it that men die when buried under the 
snow, as they do out in your part of the country, as I 
have often heard ?” I asked. 

“Never heard of anybody smothering to death under 
the snow,” was the reply. “People get asleep and freeze 
to death, but they don’t ever smother for want of air. 
There’s no danger of freezing to death here, so long as 
your feet are near the fire. Besides, it isn’t cold enough 
for that. Out our way, where we have it below zero half 
the time through the winter and a fellow gets asleep on a 
cold night he never wakes up. But there isn’t any such 
danger here, I guess.” 

Still, those curious little air holes over the mouth of 
each sleeping soldier interested me very much. I had 
never heard of such a thing before. But I saw it several 
times afterward. I cannot say that I saw it a great many 
times, for to tell the truth we did not often have snow in 
Virginia. 


28o 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I think the one I am describing was about the deepest 
of my experience there. 

I warmed my feet as best I could at the smouldering 
embers of the fire and then curled myself down on the 
snow-covered ground to sleep, covering my head with the 
cape of my overcoat as I saw the others had done. 

For a few moments I was very cold and shivered as if I 
had a chill. But before long I grew more comfortable 
and in a little while became deliciously warm. I could 
feel the weight of the snow on my overcoat cape over my 
head, but there was no sense of suffocation or even dis- 
comfort for the want of air. In fact I was soon so com- 
fortable and contented that I fell into a sound sleep and 
slept on until aroused by the unwelcome cry : 

“Fall in, second relief!” 

Could it be possible that it was nearly 5 o’clock in the 
morning! But such was the fact. I had had nearly 
four hours’ good sleep and must once again go out and 
relieve the fellow who was patrolling the post I had left 
at 1 o’clock. 

“It isn’t quite 5,” said the sergeant; “but I thought 
as how you might want to make a can of coffee to warm 
you up before you went out.” 

Thoughtful, considerate sergeant! I don’t know that 
I was ever more grateful to a human being. Although 
warm and comfortable while lying there asleep, yet I was 
shiveringly cold on arising, and anybody knows that it 
makes a fellow cold under the best of circumstances to 
jump out of bed and hasten to work without anything in 
his stomach. 

It did not take many minutes to boil my tomato can of 
coffee and drink it, while I ate a hard-tack, and I was 
in first-class condition for another round on the lonesome 
post. 

From 5 to 7 o’clock in the morning is one of the most 
dismal turns on picket. The slow process of night turn- 
ing into day makes it appear twice as long as any other 
time during the twenty-four hours. Then a fellow is tired 
and sleepy, and there is a nervous strain unknown at any 
other time of the day. 

Anybody who works for a living ten hours a day, during 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


281 


the usual laboring hours, knows that the longest time of 
the day is between 4 and 6 o’clock in the afternoon. So it 
is with the last two reliefs of a soldier on picket. 

For this reason these hours just before dawn were re- 
garded by old army officers as the most dangerous, for the 
alert enemy, knowing the condition of the men on picket, 
frequently adopted those times for raids and surprises. 
Many a battle has been commenced unexpectedly just be- 
fore daylight and with disastrous results to the army at- 
tacked. 

But nothing occurred to disturb the monotony of those 
two long hours, and daylight at last began to make its 
appearance. Better yet, the rising sun commenced to dis- 
sipate the snow clouds and the prospects were that we 
would have a clearer and milder day. 

This turned out to.be the case. We had to remain about 
the picket headquarters after going off duty at 7 o’clock 
till 9 o’clock, when the new picket came on. The sun came 
out bright and strong, and the snow began to melt, till 
it soon became a disagreeable mass of slush. 

While cooking another can of coffee my Massachusetts 
friend said to me : 

“You didn’t have much of a chance to hang up your 
stocking last night, did you?” 

“Hang up my stocking?” I answered, wondering what 
he meant. “I should think not. The best place for a 
fellow’s stockings last night was on his feet, I think.” 

“Why, don’t you know what night it was?” asked my 
Massachusetts comrade. 

“What night? Really I hadn’t thought. To tell the 
truth, I have lost the hang of the almanac.” 

“It was Christmas Eve,” he replied. “To-day is 
Christmas.” 

Sure enough. It was Christmas. And last night was 
Christmas Eve. 

What a Christmas Eve ! 

Those were the times that made a fellow homesick. 
He was all the more impressed with the great contrast 
between “the is and the was.” 

Christmas Eve! I wondered what was going on at 
home. The hanging of stockings, the exchange of pres- 


282 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ents, the merry-making? Were all these things going on 
as usual? 

Were the streets filled with women and children carry- 
ing mysterious packages? Were the men sneaking home 
with the ends of half-covered sleds and hobby-horses and 
little express wagons sticking out from the bundles under 
their arms? 

In fact was the world — the gay, happy world — going on 
just as usual? Were people laughing and singing, and 
pianos playing Christmas carols as of yore? 

Were the girls ? 

The girls ! 

What in the world did a girl look like, anyhow? Was 
there such a thing? Was it reality or a dream that I once 
danced with my arm around a pretty Paterson girl at a 
Christmas Eve hop ? 

Confound it! Could it be possible that this was the 
same world that I lived in last Christmas, one short year 
ago? 

Was it all a dream? 

Or is the present all a dream? 

Poor boy! Poor soldier boy! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


283 


CHAPTER LIII. 

A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

Christmas, 1862. The snow storm had cleared off and 
the sun came out strong and bright. The snow was 
turned into slush in a remarkably short time, and the slush 
soon turned into water. The water mixed with the red 
Virginia clay, and the result was — mud ! 

And such mud ! 

In a previous chapter I told about the mud at Wolf 
Run Shoals, where it was of the consistency of thin paste, 
and so deep that it came up to the bodies of the baggage 
wagons till they resembled boats. But this mud was 
different. 

It was of the consistency of bread dough that has been 
rising in front of the fire all night and is ready for knead- 
ing in the morning. It was tough, sticky, stringy. One 
could not go many steps before his shoes were covered, 
first so that they resembled red arctics, and soon they bore 
resemblance to pillows. It would be no exaggeration to 
say that the clump of mud stuck fast to every soldier’s 
foot was as big as a real pillow — of the Pullman car size. 

This sort of walking we had that Christmas morning, 
even through the company streets of the camp. The men 
moved about slowly and laboriously, and there is no slang 
in the statement that at every step he got his leg pulled. 

Such surroundings and the fact that it was a holiday 
put the boys in anything but a pleasant frame of mind, 
but their attention was drawn from it by the introduction 
of a novelty. This was something new in the line of 
rations. 

When the order came to “fall in for rations,” I asked 
John Butterworth, my pard, to go and draw mine with 
his, as I was tired with the night’s picket duty. John 
came back presently in a state of pleasant excitement. 


284 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“They’ve given us something new this time, Joe,” 
said he. 

“What is it, Jack?” I asked. 

“I don’t exactly know what it is,” he replied; “but I 
think they called it dissected vegetables.” 

“Dissected vegetables?” 

“Yes, that’s what they called it.” 

“Let’s see it.” 

John pulled out two cakes of the “dissected vegeta- 
bles.” They were supposed to be three days’ rations 
each. Each cake was about twice the size of a stick of 
patent kindling wood. It looked like a mass of com- 
pressed sawdust and hops. 

“What do you do with the stuff?” I asked. 

“They say it is vegetables,” replied John. “You put 
it in the kettle or tomato can with a piece of pork and 
some water, boil it and make soup.” 

“Sawdust soup?” I asked. 

“Don’t know,” answered John. “I only know that’s 
what they told us to do with it.” 

We concluded to try it at once. We put one of the 
cakes into a tomato can, together with a little piece of 
pork, and filled it with water and went to the camp fire. 
It will be remembered that in the front every man was 
his own cook. It is only when in a camp that is somewhat 
permanent that we had a regular cook for the whole com- 
pany. 

Pretty soon the water began to boil and then the cake of 
“dissected vegetables” began to swell. It swelled till it 
not only filled the can, but ran over. I never saw any- 
thing swell so in my life. It was worse than a piece of 
plug tobacco. It was a common expression in the army 
when borrowing a chew of tobacco from a comrade to hear 
the remark: 

“Don’t take too big a bite, for it swells in your mouth.” 

So it was with the “dissected vegetables.” They swell, 
not in the mouth, but in the kettle. The result of it was 
that about half was wasted before the stuff was fairly 
cooked through. 

This was supposed to make vegetable soup. The theory 
was that the vegetables were preserved by pressure, the 



We put one of the cakes into a tomato can, together with a little piece 
of pork. 


Page 284 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


285 


same as they preserved fodder for cattle in kilos. It was 
supposed that there were potatoes, turnips, cabbage, car- 
rots, onions and other succulent vegetables in the mass, 
but, as a matter of fact, there was nothing but cabbage 
and carrots, and a very poor article at that. At first trial 
the soup was utterly tasteless, but with the addition of 
plenty of salt and papper, and a little more grease from the 
pork, it became somewhat more palatable. 

It was the only thing in the shape of vegetables ever 
served to the soldiers in the army, and, insipid as it was, it 
was a pleasing addition to our bill of fare. The first lot 
we received was tolerably good, but the quality degen- 
erated till it became nothing more than a lot of rags, ap- 
parently, and the time soon came when the soldiers would 
not take the trouble of putting it in their haversacks. In 
the course of time it was entirely dropped from the list 
of rations. 

But we got something more that day. In addition to 
the usual coffee and pork and beans we got some rice, and 
this was most acceptable. Rice boiled with pork really 
makes a palatable dish. I think that of all the things 
served to the soldiers rice and beans were the most ac- 
ceptable, next, of course, to the indispensable pork and 
coffee. 

It may here be of interest to the reader to know what 
allowance of food was made for the soldiers “according to 
the regulations.” I will give it. 

Twelve ounces of pork or bacon or twenty ounces of salt 
or fresh beef ; twenty-two ounces of soft bread or flour, or 
one pound of hard-tack (twenty ounces of corn meal was 
sometimes given in lieu of either of these). The above 
was for each man. Then, for every one hundred men, 
fifteen pounds of beans or peas, ten pounds of rice or 
hominy, eight pounds of roasted coffee or twenty-four 
ounces of tea, fifteen pounds of sugar, four quarts of vine- 
gar, twenty ounces of candles, four pounds of soap, four 
pounds of salt, four ounces of pepper, thirty pounds of 
potatoes and one quart of molasses. 

The potatoes did not materialize. The only tubers that 
we got were procured by foraging. I remember seeing 
molasses two or three times. Tea wasn’t a popular bev- 


286 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


erage, and the soldier never took it unless he could not get 
his beloved coffee. One of the items on the allowance was 
never seen — fresh bread. 

It will be seen that there was plenty of the substantiate 
of life to keep body and soul together provided we got 
them all. But there was always something short. There 
was always something “out.” We simply had to take 
what we could get or do without. Of course, we 
grumbled. 

Kicking was one of the inestimable privileges of a sol- 
dier that were never interfered with. 

Everything was furnished the army by contract. And 
every government contractor got rich. They took the 
contracts at ridiculously low prices and then got square 
by swindling the soldiers. The food was frequently of 
inferior quality, while the shoddy clothing that was fur- 
nished was at times so bad that it would almost fall apart 
of its own weight. To the soldier who judged the thing 
simply by experience and observation, the terms “contrac- 
tor” and “robber” were synonymous. 

Then another discomfort was discovered on that day — 
that merry Christmas Day ! 

The place where we were stopping had been used as a 
camp ground before, and there was the usual result. It 
was not long before the pesky pediculus investimenti 
began to show himself in great numbers. 

“Why isn't this a good time to get rid of these gray- 
backs for a while?” asked John Butterworth. 

“How’ll we do it, Jack?” I asked. 

“I heard Jake Engle say he wasn’t going to use the ket- 
tles to-day,” was the reply. “We can get them and give 
our shirts a good boiling.” 

“Agreed,” said I, “although it isn’t a very pleasant day 
for such work.” 

“That’s so, but we must do it when we can get the ket- 
tles. Jake may be making bean soup to-morrow.” 

The indiscriminate use of the camp kettles for boiling 
lousy shirts and making bean soup may probably strike the 
reader as not being quite as nice as it might be. But then 
these are facts, as every soldier can testify. “Everything 



“ Say, Joe,” said Butterworth, 


sarcastically, 
isn’t it.” 


this is a Merry Christmas, 


Page 287 





























































































. 






























THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 287 

went” in the army. We had to make the best of such 
things as were at our command. 

So we got the kettle and made our way down to the 
brook. It was the same brook that we got our water 
from for culinary purposes; but what of that? I must 
admit, however, that this made me a little “feasty.” The 
brook was lined I don’t know how far up with other sol- 
diers performing both personal ablutions and engaged in 
laundry work, and the surface of the little stream was 
covered with soap suds that floated by us. 

We built a fire, filled the kettle with water and before 
long the water was boiling. 

Then we pulled off our coats, cardigan jackets and 
shirts. 

I can tell you that it isn’t pleasant to stand outdoors in 
one’s bare pelt in the winter time, even though it be in 
Virginia. We quickly put on the cardigan jackets and 
coats, minus a shirt, but still shivered with the cold. 

“Why didn’t the men have two shirts ?” I hear the reader 
ask. 

What was the use of two shirts when one would do? 
Furthermore, every ounce counted on the march, and that 
was of more importance than the temporary discomfort of 
going without while washing the one shirt. 

Say, Joe,” said Butterworth sarcastically, as he gave 
the boiling shirts a poke with a stick he had picked up 
somewhere, “this is a merry Christmas, isn’t it?” 

“A Merry Christmas” it was indeed! 


288 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LIV. 

OUR SHIRTS "SWIPED.” 

Boiling shirts was one thing. Drying them was an- 
other. The brook where we were engaged in the laundry 
work ran through a woods, in the shade. Although the 
sun was melting the snow in the clearing, it seemed to be 
about at the freezing point there in the woods. This fact 
we didn’t notice as we carefully spread the wet garments 
over some bushes to dry. 

We went out into the sunshine where it was a little 
warmer, and indulged in a game of tag and a running 
race to keep from being chilled. When we thought the 
shirts might be a little dry we went for an examination. 

Instead of being dry they were frozen stiff. When we 
bent them they cracked like a printing-office towel that 
hasn’t been washed in six months. 

“I think we are a pair of fools,” said Butterworth. 
"We might ha’ known that the shirts wouldn’t have dried 
there in the shade on this cold day.” 

"Well, to tell the truth, Jack,” said I, "I have not had 
much experience washing shirts and I didn’t know any- 
thing about it. But I guess it will be all right if we hang 
them out in the sun.” 

So we hung the shirts in the sun, and as it was getting 
toward noon we thought we would kill two birds with one 
stone and keep comfortable around the camp fire while 
cooking some coffee. That warmed us up. 

"The shirts must be pretty dry by this time,” said John. 
"I will go and see.” 

Butterworth went to look after the laundry while I put 
away the coffee pots. In a few moments my pard re- 
turned with the most lugubrious expression on his face 
that I ever saw. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 289 

“What’s the matter, Jack?” I asked. “Aren’t the shirts 
dry yet?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, with a quizzical look. 

“Don’t know? What’s the matter now?” 

“Well, the fact is, Joe, somebody has stolen those 
shirts !” 

“Stolen the shirts?” 

“Yes, they’re gone.” 

It was true. Somebody had “swiped” the shirts. 
Some bright comrade had come to the conclusion that it 
was easier to get a couple of clean shirts that way than 
it was to wash them. There was no use trying to discover 
the thief in such a case as this. The different things fur- 
nished to the army were as alike as peas, and could not be 
identified. Some of the boys put private marks on their 
articles, but we had never bothered with that. 

All through the army there were a thievish lot of fel- 
lows in every regiment who seemed to delight in taking 
other’s property. I don’t think it was considered a sin. 
It was a perfectly natural operation, and legitimately with- 
in the ordinary degree of normal turpitude of a certain 
class. Blankets, muskets, canteens, everything, were in- 
discriminately “swiped.” 

Of course, no one suspected a member of his own com- 
pany! It was always laid to some wicked fellow who 
had sneaked into camp from one of the adjoining com- 
panies. In such cases, frequently, if the loser was a big 
fellow and a bully, he would coolly go to some smaller sol- 
dier and calmly demand his blanket or whatever it might 
be, claiming it as his own and charging the little fellow 
with having stolen it! A pretended private mark, some 
peculiarity suddenly observed at the moment, would be 
utilized to back up the claim of ownership. 

That reminds me of a story which may be old to many 
of my readers, but which will serve to illustrate the fact 
stated. 

A soldier went to another who was lying on the ground 
covered with his blanket. The first man coolly pulled off 
the blanket and proceeded to walk off with it. 

“Here, here, what are you doing there ?” asked the man 


290 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


who owned the blanket. “What are you taking my 
blanket away for ?” 

“That’s my blanket, you spalpeen, and I have a right to 
take it.” 

"Your blanket ! How do you make that out?” 

“Sure’n there’s my name on it.” 

“Where?” 

“There. Don’t you see the letters ‘U. S.’ on it?” 

“What’s that to do with it ? What’s your name ?” 

“Pat Murphy. There’s the U. for Patrick and the S. 
for Murphy — Patrick Murphy. That’s my blanket and ye 
can’t deny it.” 

History doesn’t tell us the termination of this story, but 
it is only an exaggerated illustration of the cheeky claims 
for ownership that were sometimes made in the army. 

But there we were shivering in the cold for the want of 
a shirt. What should we do? We consulted Heber 
Wells. 

“The quartermaster has just received a lot of clothing 
and perhaps he has some shirts,” said Heber. “I will give 
you a requisition.” 

Heber made out the requisition for “two shirts” on the 
blanks provided for that purpose and we went to the quar- 
termaster’s and after the usual delay and red tape managed 
to procure the desired garments, which we put on then 
and there. They were neither of the right size, but we 
had learned not to mind a little thing like that. 

“Joe,” said Butterworth, “I have an idea.” 

“If you have, Jack,” I replied banteringly, “keep hold 
of it for fear it will get away from you.” 

“No, but it’s a good idea. What’s the use of bothering 
with washing our shirts when we can draw new ones ?” 

“True enough,” I replied. “That is a good idea. I 
don’t think I will do any more washing.” 

And I think that this was the usual practice with old 
soldiers whenever it was possible. The government al- 
lowed a certain amount of clothing, and so long as the 
account was not overdrawn a soldier could always obtain 
a supply. Of course, it was not always possible, for the 
quartermaster was one of those fellows who were not 
with the camp when there were signs of a conflict; but 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


291 

the allowance was liberal, and the practice of drawing 
new underclothing became more general with the old 
soldiers than washing out the old ones. 

It was on the next day after this, if I remember rightly, 
that General Williams woke up and decided that the army 
under his command had not had quite enough work to do, 
and that it would also add to his glory and renown to have 
a division review. 

Now, a review or inspection was always obnoxious 
under the most favorable circumstances, but at that par- 
ticular time, with the ground so thickly covered with mud, 
we came to the conclusion that the officers all had gone 
mad. “Kicking” doesn’t fairly express the conduct of the 
boys on that occasion. 

But what was the use of kicking? The generals and 
others gave the orders and all that we had to do was to 
obey them. We wallowed through the mud and went 
through the various evolutions connected with a review as 
well as we could, and it must have been pretty good, after 
all, for we were subsequently complimented by “general 
orders.” 

“Something on hand, pard,” said my friend of the Third 
Wisconsin, who had got in the habit of making friendly 
visits. “As I told you often before, there’s always some- 
thing coming when we have these reviews and inspections. 
We won’t stay here long.” 

It really did seem so, and I remembered these words 
when the very next day we were ordered to fall in for a 
march. 

That was the most ridiculous day’s march we ever had. 
We had only fairly got started, and, in fact, had not gone 
more than a mile when we were formed into companies, 
ordered to stack arms and go into camp again. 

What could this mean? We soon found out that the 
doctor had pronounced the water in the other camp im- 
pure and had advised ^ change. I guess the doctor must 
have examined the brook immediately after we had 
washed our shirts. If so, no wonder he found it impure ! 

But the change was a good one. The brook alongside 
of which we camped this time was as clear and pure as 
crystal — although there was no telling how long it would 


292 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


remain so. The ground was higher and dryer, the wood 
was plentiful, and altogether it was an improvement that 
pleased us much. We were also delighted to hear that we 
would likely remain there for some time. 

Early next morning, however, we were hustled out and 
ordered to put all our knapsacks in a big pile, with a layer 
of light wood between them, so that the whole lot could 
be set afire and burned at a moment’s notice ! 

What under the sun did this mean ? 

Had the officers all gone crazy? 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


293 


CHAPTER LV. 

REDDY AND ICK AGAIN. 

To us private soldiers the scene in which we had just 
participated was incomprehensible. Why the officers 
piled our knapsacks in a great heap, mixed with light 
wood and small branches, ready to form a gigantic fixe, 
was something that we could not understand. 

Equally incomprehensible to us was the fact that we 
were ordered to fall in for a march in “light marching 
order.” 

Here it was, as one might say, in dead of winter, and 
we were ordered off with nothing but our overcoats and 
blankets, in addition to our accouterments, at a time when 
we needed every article that we could possibly carry to 
make ourselves comfortable. 

It was a hard march that the officers gave us that day. 
We harried along the muddy roads, and across lots 
through muddy fields, hither and thither, till tired out 
and completely disgusted, we once more came to a creek 
that we immediately recognized as that forlorn place, Wolf 
Run Shoals. 

Here we halted for the first time, and, despite the con- 
dition of the ground, we were so tired that we lay right 
down in the mud to get some rest, being absolutely too 
much played out to cook the coffee that we were all in 
need of. 

When we halted we imagined, of course, that we were 
going into camp then and there, and there were loud and 
deep imprecations over the orders that had deprived us of 
our knapsacks, and other things so much needed at that 
time of the year. 

“Dat vas ein shames, don’d it,” said John Ick lugu- 
briously. “Vat you tinks, Reddy?” 

“Be jabers and Oi think they are a set of lu-nat-ticks,” 


294 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


replied Reddy. “Do they suppose we’re a lot of Eski- 
moxis to be able to slape in the snow and ate taller can- 
dles ? A grease-eatin’ Dutchman like ye shouldn’t moind, 
but for respectable men the loikes o’ me, be jabers, it 
isn’t roight, that’s phwat it isn’t.” 

“Who vas dot grease-eatin’ Dutchman, you ninper- 
poop?” replied Ick, somewhat angrily. “Dond you call 
me by some names like dot, Reddy.” 

“That’s phwat ye are,” replied Reddy. “Don’t Oi 
know? You Dutchmen do nothing but ate sourkrout and 
blood puddin’, and fat sausages and duck livers win at 
yer home, and that’s next door to atin’ taller candles, 
don’d it?” 

“Der Deutschmens lives better as by the Irishes, Reddy, 
und dond you forgot dot. You Irishes eats gooses, und 
dot’s worser by taller candles, dond it?” 

“Oi wish Oi had a good fat goose now,” said Reddy, 
smacking his lips. 

“Vas you hungry, alretty, Reddy?” 

“Oi am that. Oi could ate a whole soide o’ sole 
lither.” 

“I vas so hungry mine own selluf, Reddy. You gets 
some woods und I vill der coffee cooken.” 

“No, ye get the wood, and Oi’ll cook the coffee.” 

“Nein, I will do coffee cooken. Dot vas your turns to 
get some woods.” 

“Phwat d’ye mean, ye spalpeen ? I got the last wood.” 

“No, you dond, Reddy. It vas me by dot last woods 
begotten.” 

“John, ye are the worrust loyer Oi iver saw. You 
know that it’s your turn to get the wood.” 

“Dond you calls my dot name some more, Reddy, oder 
I’ll smash your face all over your nose.” 

“Let’s see you do that, ye spalpeen,” said Reddy, getting 
angry and jumping to his feet. “Oi have had enough o’ 
this palaver from the loikes o’ ye.” 

Ick thought Reddy meant business, and squared him- 
self for the encounter. Reddy thought that Ick was going 
to carry out his threat to “smash his face all over his 
nose.” 

The discomforts of the situation and the fatigue from 



He landed a right hander square on Reddy’s proboscis. 


Page 295 




THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


295 


that day’s march through the sticky mud had put every- 
body in a bad humor. Reddy Mahar and John Ick, 
whose respective characteristics were more animal than 
intellectual, had created a safety valve for their outraged 
feelings. They were both in a humor to fight. They 
would have fought anybody. It made no difference 
whom. But the conflict had naturally arisen between 
these two strange companions. 

They both struck out simultaneously. I never saw a 
prettier rough-and-tumble. The first blow given by Ick 
looked as if he really would carry out his face-smashing 
threat. He landed a right-hander square on Reddy’s 
proboscis, which set the claret flowing. Reddy retaliated 
with a blow that would have been declared a foul in the 
prize ring because of its being below the belt. To this day 
I can hear the grunt that came out of Ick’s body invol- 
untarily. 

Then they withdrew a few steps from each other, and, 
after looking into each other’s eyes for a moment like wild 
beasts at bay, they once more came together with a clash 
and crash. 

The result of this collision simply involved a problem in 
momentum. Ick was the heavier of the two, and, to use a 
slang phrase, he walked right over Mahar. The latter 
went down with Ick on top of him. 

Reddy was the slimmer of the two and more supple in 
his movements. Ick was a big, clumsy fellow, and al- 
though on top, the under dog in this fight had decidedly 
the best of it. They punched and scratched, gouged and 
bit, rolling first one way and the other, through the thick 
mud on the ground, till they were both besmeared from 
head to foot. 

I guess the fight lasted fifteen minutes. The officers of 
the company, with the others, were holding a consultation 
at regimental headquarters, so that there was no inter- 
ference from that score. The privates and non-commis- 
sioned officers had learned never to interfere with these 
periodical conflicts between Reddy Mahar and John Ick, 
for we all knew that they would again be the warmest 
of friends when it was over. 

Besides, it was rather a diversion to the rest of us, 


296 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


It was a sort of relief to our feelings. We all felt in the 
humor to fight something or somebody. Even I, who 
had never fought anything in my life, felt as if I could 
whip anything that came along. There is a certain time 
when man’s endurance has been about exhausted that this 
feeling is natural and involuntary. 

Exactly how the fight ended I can’t tell. I remember 
that both the belligerents got up simultaneously, wiped 
the blood and mud out of their eyes with their coat 
sleeves, and then Ick said : 

“I told you vat we does, Reddy; we’ll both go after 
some wood, and then both dot coffee cooken, dond it?” 

“Thin why didn’t ye say that before, ye spalpeen, and 
act like a gintleman?” replied Reddy. 

The two Dromios thereupon shook hands in the most 
cordial manner imaginable, and they were friends once 
more. The comical termination of the fight, although it 
was the way all their fights terminated, set us all to laugh- 
ing for the first time that day, and I must confess that it 
put us in better humor. 

The rest of us had been aroused from the depression we 
had fallen into, and by mutual consent we concluded to 
follow their example, get some wood and cook some coffee, 
for we were all in need of it. 

But we had wasted our valuable time. We had been 
watching a pugilistic encounter instead of attending to 
very necessary culinary duties. It was too late now. 
The officers just at that moment returned to the company 
and gave the order to “fall in.” 

There was more kicking, of course, but it did not 
amount to anything. All that we had to do was to obey 
orders. The duty of a soldier is to “say nothing and saw 
wood.” 

They say that the work that drives convicts to insanity 
quicker than anything else is the apparently nonsensical 
labor of carrying a pile of stone one by one from one end 
of the prison yard to the other, and when that is done, car- 
rying them back again one by one. This is kept up in- 
cessantly day after day, and the monotonous labor event- 
ually drives the unhappy victim to the lunatic asylum. 

It was for a somewhat similar reason that the soldiers 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


297 


were frequently driven to the verge of insanity. There 
seemed to be no end to the practice of marching the troops 
back and forth, hither and thither, without any apparent 
cause or reason. The object of all this probably was 
known to the officers, but the privates were kept in igno- 
rance. I often thought that the enlisted men would have 
a good deal less mental worriment and fatigue if they had 
some of these things explained to them. But that 
wouldn’t be “according to the regulations.” 

Imagine our disgust, therefore, to be marched back 
right over the ground we had taken in the fore part of the 
day. We followed the same course so accurately that we 
almost stepped into the same tracks that we had made in 
the forenoon. 

We reached the old camping grounds toward night, 
tired out, hungry, discouraged and utterly disgusted. 

Some such experience as this must have inspired the 
author of the old Mother Goose story about the famous 
king who, with his forty thousand men, marched them up 
the hill and then marched them down again. 


298 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LVI. 

THE PAYMASTER. 

There lay our knapsacks and other things in the great 
pile, with the light wood mixed with them, ready to set 
fire. They hadn’t been burned up, after all. This made 
it look more mysterious than before. 

They had been left in charge of a detail of men under 
command of Major Chadwick. He had taken good care 
of them. No one had stolen any of the knapsacks. 

It seems that the movement that we had made that day 
is what they called a “reconnaissance.” It was reported 
that there were some rebels in the neighborhood of Wolf 
Run Shoals, and we had gone to see if it was so. Had 
there been any we would naturally have got into a fight. 
This going out of the way to get into a muss was one of 
the things that never met my approval. Why not leave 
well enough alone? 

But we met no enemy at Wolf Run Shoals, for the rea- 
son that there was no enemy there, and we consequently 
all came back on foot instead of on stretchers or in ambu- 
lances. 

It also seems that the officers feared a raid by the rebel 
guerrillas while we were on the reconnaissance, and so the 
knapsacks had been arranged in a pile ready to set fire 
and destroy on the first appearance of the enemy. Rather 
destroy government property at any time than permit it to 
fall into the hands of the enemy. That is war ! 

When the ranks were broken .the men were directed to 
find their own knapsacks. 

Well ! Here was a job ! 

There were six or seven hundred knapsacks in that pile, 
and they were as much alike as so many peas in a pod. 
Not half a dozen in the entire lot had any particular mark 
to identify them. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


299 


There had been no arrangement or system in piling 
them up. They were thrown in the pile promiscuously, 
indiscriminately. For each man to pick out his own was 
consequently a tedious task. Nearly every one had to be 
opened to see what was inside, so that it might be recog- 
nized by the owner. That took a good deal of time. It 
was late in the night before they were all claimed, and, 
even as it was, some mistakes had to be rectified the next 
morning. 

Butterworth knew my knapsack, and, while he was 
looking for his and mine, I cooked some coffee, so that 
we did not crawl under our blankets hungry. But many 
another soldier did. I have heard kicking many a time 
on the part of the Thirteenth Regiment, but I cannot 
recall any occasion when the kicking equalled that which 
was indulged in that night. 

We remained in camp at this place about ten days. 
We had become convinced that we would make it our 
winter quarters, and had spent some time and gone to no 
little trouble in fitting up log houses, “with all modern im- 
provements.” But alas ! there’s no rest for the wicked — 
nor for the soldier. 

On the 4th of January we were once more ordered to 
break camp, and once more started on the march. It was 
not in light marching order this time, however. We car- 
ried our knapsacks and everything we could pack in them. 

Once more we went over that too-familiar road toward 
Wolf Run Shoals. It was not so bad this time, however, 
for the mud had either dried away or the ground was 
frozen, I’ve forgotten which. Anyhow, the walking was 
not nearly as bad as it was on the previous occasion, nor 
did we seem to be in a like feverish haste. 

We were halted and directed to form camp almost on 
the same identical ground where John Butterworth and 
I had got such a soaking that night when the rain rushed 
through our “pup” tents, going into the backs of our necks 
and coming out at the bottom of our trousers’ legs. 

It was a good place for a camp. There was plenty of 
timber to cut down and make into log houses, and there 
was an ample supply of good water. We were more than 
pleased to hear that we had at last reached our “winter 


3 °° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


quarters,” and that we might proceed to make ourselves 
comfortable with some degree of certainty of remaining 
there for a while. 

Butterworth and I spent a busy day making another 
log house, after the style of architecture described in a 
previous chapter. It was the most cozy place we had yet 
had, for experience had taught us how to make things 
comfortable with the limited means at our disposal. 

It was a wonderful thing how quickly the dense woods 
disappeared. In twenty-four hours the ground around 
the camp, for a space covering several acres, was entirely 
cleared, and where there had stood large trees there was 
nothing left but a lot of stumps. These stumps came in 
useful for a number of purposes. 

I was detailed a day or so afterward with some other 
fellows to smooth off the top of a big stump in front of 
Colonel Carman s tent. We did not know what it was 
for, the only instructions we received being “to make it 
smooth enough to write upon.” Inasmuch as the only 
tools we had for this purpose were some axes (and not 
over sharp at that) and our jackknives, it mav be imag- 
ined that it was no easy task, and the result was not 
quite as satisfactory as the table top of a roll-top desk of 
modern times. When we had done the best we could, the 
colonel said : ‘Let it go at that,” and that settled it. 

len Captain Scott called me to his tent and set me to 
work making out the pay rolls. This showed what the 
stump was to be used for. The paymaster was coming. 

The pay rolls, as well as all the other rolls of the 
army, were enormous affairs. There is hardly a desk 
made in these days that would accommodate one of them. 
With the limited facilities at our command at the front it 

™ as i a „ di ? cu i t thmg t0 make them out at the best. Th e 
desk that I wrote upon was the top of an old cracker 
box, which took in about one-quarter of the big sheet of 
paper, and so it had to be made out in sections, as it were. 

Three copies of these rolls had to be made out. They 
contained the name of the soldier, the date of his enlist- 
ment and muster, and lots of other things, besides the 
time he had served since his last payment. When com- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 301 

pleted they had to be certified by the commandant of the 
company. 

In the army enlisted men had to swear to all legal 
proceedings. The commissioned officers only had to 
“certify” on their word of honor. The “word of honor” 
and certification of a commissioned officer was consid- 
ered as binding as the oath of a private or “non-commish ” 
The former were a higher grade of mortals, and were 
governed by a different code of morals. 

That may be all right in theory, but — well, never mind ! 

A day or so later the paymaster arrived. His high and 
mighty giblets was of the usual arbitrary and arrogant 
character, an autocrat of autocrats. His clerk spread the 
rolls out on the stump we had cleared off, and an assistant 
carried the grip that contained the boodle. 

The officers were paid off first, of course, and we envied 
them as they stuffed the thick wad of crisp greenbacks, 
never before used, fresh from the press, into their pockets. 
Then came the non-commissioned officers and then the 
“men.” 

The amount given to each diminished in size as the 
process continued. The omnipresent sutler was there for 
his grab, as usual. What was left for each private wasn’t 
much. He might have stuck it into his ear, and it 
wouldn’t have impaired his hearing at that ! 

There were two months to be paid for. There was a 
good deal more than that coming, but the paymasters were 
always several months behind in their payments for some 
reason or other. If we were paid to within six months 
of the time due, we were lucky. 

When I had signed my name to the three rolls— and 
signing one’s name with a scraggly pen on the rough top 
of the stump was no soft snap at that — and the paymaster 
had deducted the amount due to the sutler, I had fourteen 
dollars left. I hadn’t spent so much with the sutler this 
time, probably because the sutler had been separated from 
the regiment so much of the time. 

A large proportion of the men sent their money home, 
through the medium of messengers sent to the front for 
the purpose by Governor Marcus L. Ward. This was a 
good and safe arrangement. It was also touching to wit- 


302 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ness the devotion of the men to their families at home. 
Some of them sent every cent, when a little change would 
have provided them with many a luxury. 

I didn’t send mine home. I had no one to depend on 
me, and I was glad of it. On the contrary, I soon got rid 
of the bulk of mine in another way. I am sorry to tell 
how, but the truth must be told, even though it be not 
very creditable. 

Sam Dougherty, one of the sergeants, came up to me 
and asked : 

“How much did you get?” 

“Fourteen dollars,” I replied. 

“What are you going to do with it?” 

“I don’t know. Keep it, I suppose.” 

“Suppose we have a little draw ?” he said. 



We went to Sam’s log house with a greasy old deck of cards. 

Page 303 















































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3°3 


CHAPTER LVII. 

A LITTLE GAME OF DRAW. 

“What do you mean by draw?” I innocently asked 
Sergeant Dougherty. 

“Poker,” he replied. “Draw poker.” 

“I’d make a pretty fist at that,” said I ; “I never played 
a game of poker in my life. I can go you on high-low or 
euchre, but I don’t know anything about poker.” 

“That makes no difference,” said he insinuatingly; “it 
is the easiest game to learn you ever saw, and I can show 
you in five minutes.” 

I was innocent, and imagined that it must be a simple 
game that can be learned in five minutes. Sam Dough- 
erty was perhaps the first man that ever lived that had the 
assurance to make such an assertion. We went to Sam’s 
log house, and with a greasy old deck of cards spread out 
on the lid of a cracker box, he began to initiate me into the 
mysteries and intricacies of the great game of “draw.” 

He fired at me a perfectly bewildering lot of straights, 
full-houses, bobtail flushes, royal flushes, ace and king- 
highs, and all that. The more he explained the more I 
got mixed up. One thing particularly struck me, how- 
ever, and that was the “bluff.” He carefully impressed 
this on me, and told me how a man with a poor hand could 
frequently win if he kept the right sort of an expression 
of confidence and didn’t lose his nerve. 

I concluded that I’d let the other things go and con- 
fine myself to the bluff. I would make that “the feature” 
of my game. 

The quartette indulging in that wonderful game com- 
prised Sam Dougherty, Lew Van Orden, Charles Ruestow 
and myself. Van Orden was' a good player already, hav- 
ing had considerable experience in the game. Ruestow, 
like myself, was a novice. We always called him 


304 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“Rooster.” Nearly all the soldiers had some sort of a 
nickname. 

We used little pieces of twigs for “chips,” and each 
was supposed to represent five cents. 

“We’ll make it five cents ante, with a dollar limit,” said 
Sam. I didn’t know an ante from an uncle, but didn’t 
want to display my ignorance before the others. 

Sam dealt the cards. I got two deuces, a tray, a jack 
and queen. I had caught on to the fact that three of a 
kind was better than two of a kind, and so discarded the 
jack and queen. Then I drew two cards. 

They were two jacks. 

What a fool I was, I thought to myself. If I had only 
kept that other Jack I would have had three of them. As 
it was I had two jacks and deuces. I thought that was a 
pretty good hand. 

All the other fellows “went five better.” Neither “Rue- 
stow nor myself had the slightest idea of what this was, 
but when we saw the others lay down another twig we did 
the same thing. This thing went around twice and then 
some one “called.” 

We threw down our hands, and strange to say I had 
won. The next highest hand was a pair of ten-spots. 
My jacks had beaten that. The man with the ten spots 
had also a pair of nines. It struck me that twice ten and 
twice nine counted more than twice two and two jacks, 
but I entered no protest when they said I was the winner, 
and I raked in the chips representing about sixty or sev- 
enty cents, I’ve forgotten exactly how much. 

I was elated at this victory. It swelled my head and I 
began to imagine that I saw through the whole thing. 
Sam was right when he said this was an easy game ! 

In the next hand I made a phenomenal draw. I held 
four aces. By intuition I recognized that as good, and I 
could not help looking pleased. 

Sam thought I was profiting by his advice on the ques- 
tion of bluff, and he apparently made up his mind to push 
me to the wall. The other fellows seemed to have good 
hands also, for the betting went round and round. 

I won again. My four aces were “good.” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3°5 


“Are you sure you never played this game before?” 
asked Sam, incredulously. 

I solemnly assured him that this was the first time I 
had ever played draw poker. But from the look on his 
face I don’t think that he believed me. 

Lew Van Or den said nothing, but I noticed that he 
exchanged glances with Sam Dougherty. I didn’t under- 
stand what it meant at the time. Charley Ruestow was 
also silent. But he was a bright little fellow, and I felt 
that he was closely studying the game. As for myself I 
began to think that I was a boss player. 

My next hand positively had nothing in it. I gave 
myself away by drawing five cards. Then I found that 
my hand was just as bad if not worse than before. But 
I decided to try the bluff game this time. I didn’t know 
that bluffing doesn’t generally “go” after a five-card draw, 
but I tried it all the same. 

Singular to say it worked all right. The others had 
grown suspicious of my good luck, and Sam apparently 
didn’t think that I would bluff after drawing five cards, 
and imagined, of course, that I had struck another phe- 
nomenal hand. 

When I had scooped in the third pot, Sam asked me 
to let him see my hand. I didn’t know any better and 
showed it to him. When he saw that there was nothing 
in it he made a remark that I didn’t fully understand. It 
was something like “being taken for a sucker.” I wasn’t 
yet sufficiently acquainted with the technical terms of the 
game to understand what this meant. Again I noticed 
Lew winking at Sam in a somewhat suggestive manner. 

Another hand being dealt and getting another poor lot 
of cards, I again tried the bluff game and laid down my 
chips with an expression supposed to represent a man who 
has a good thing and knows it. But it didn’t work this 
time. I was “called” and Van Orden grabbed the pot, 
after exhibiting three nine and two trays. “A full house,” 
he called it. 

I began to lose faith in the bluffing business, but 
thought that maybe after all my losing the hand was 
only an accident. 

The next hand I drew was “ ’way up in G.” It con- 


3°6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


tained four queens and a jack. I chipped in with the 
greatest confidence and could not conceal the certainty I 
felt of winning. When somebody had ‘‘called,” I threw 
down my four queens and jack with a wave of triumph, 
and made a motion to grab the stakes. 

“Hold on there,” said Sam, seizing my hand. “Don’t 
be quite so fast, my young man. I think I’ll take that 
pile.” 

“What have you got?” I asked. 

He threw down his hand. It didn’t look to me as if it 
was anything very wonderful. 

“Well, what of that?” I asked. “That lot of stuff 
don’t beat four queens, does it ?” 

“Of course, it does. That’s a royal flush.” 

“What is a royal flush?” I asked. 

“It is a hand,” replied Sam, “where you have the cards 
in regular order, like one, two, three, etc., and all of the 
same color.” 

“Well, what of that?” 

“What of that!” said Sam, with a face as sober as a 
judge; “that’s the highest hand you can hold, and takes 
anything.” 

“I thought a royal flush must be all the same suit,” 
interrupted Ruestow. “I don’t see how you make it out 
of a mixture of diamonds and hearts.” 

“That don’t make any difference,” said Sam, “so long 
as they are of the same color. Isn’t that so, Lew ?” turn- 
ing to Van Or den. 

“Yes, that’s so,” replied the latter, gravely. “All that 
is necessary is that the sequence should be of the same 
color.” 

“I know that it isn’t so,” interrupted Ruestow. “They 
must be of the same suit.” Sam looked angrily at this 
interference, and demanded: 

“I thought this was the first game of poker that you 
ever played?” 

“So it is,” replied Ruestow ; “but I’ve read a great deal 
about the game and know that I’m right.” 

A very black look came over the faces of Sam and Lew. 
Ruestow noticed this, and throwing down his cards he got 
up and said he would not play any more. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


307 


I remained, and at the suggestion of the others made it 
a three-handed game. From that moment my luck 
seemed to forsake me. I couldn’t understand half the 
decisions that were made, but I supposed they were all 
right. They were experienced poker-players and this was 
my first game. 

Under such circumstances the result was inevitable. 

When I walked out an hour afterward my fourteen dol- 
lars were gone! 

I can’t say that I regretted the experience. It had 
taught me a good lesson. I played many a time after that, 
while in the army, but never again for real money. Plain, 
everyday chips having only a supposititious value were 
good enough for me after that. 

But in all my subsequent playing I never ran across 
anybody who had the same interpretation of a “royal 
flush” as the two gentlemen who initiated me into the 
mysteries of the game of draw. 


3°8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LVIII. 
a private's philosophy. 

The camp we occupied was “Near Fairfax Station/’ 
and so our letters were dated and our mail addressed. 
We occasionally, when we had the chance, went out to see 
the “station.” That was all there was of the place, by the 
way. It was a big storehouse, built of rough boards, 
alongside the track, with the platform on the railroad side, 
so that it was simply and purely a freight house. It was 
the depot of supplies for the army in that part of Virginia. 

Such a thing as a passenger car was never seen. 
Everybody who rode, even the officers, sat in the freight 
cars. The officers seemed to have a good deal of busi- 
ness to call them back and forth, but there were not 
many privates to be seen on the cars — at least not outward 
going. Occasionally some lucky fellow would get a fur- 
lough. But the most were new recruits, arriving from 
home. 

The quantity of goods and provisions that continually 
kept coming was immense, and for the first time we began 
to get an idea of the tremendous quantities needed to 
supply an army. And we constituted only a very small 
portion of the army at that. 

There was a strange sensation at the first sight of a rail- 
road train, primitive and rough though it was, after not 
having had that pleasure for so long a time. We had 
become impressed with the feeling that we were in another 
sort of a world and that such things as steam cars and 
carriages, houses and stores, were but the memories of 
some half- forgotten dream. But the sight of the locomo- 
tive and car seemed to open a new link with the outer 
world. 

Particularly striking was it to me to see on the loco- 
motive the familiar name of “Rogers.” Oh, you de- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


309 


lightful old thing from Paterson! I could almost have 
hugged it — that is, if I could have got my arms around 
something small enough to hug. 

I sat there on the rough platform and gazed at the name 
“Rogers” as if fascinated. I forgot the surroundings of 
the place and was carired back to glorious old Paterson ! 
Then my thoughts wandered down to the corner of Broad- 
way and Main Street, to the old Guardian building, and 
for a few moments I was back there again, wearing a long 
apron and “kicking” the Ruggles press. I forgot for the 
moment that kicking a Ruggles press is likened to nothing 
under the sun beside a treadmill or a slave galley, but it 
seemed a delightful occupation just then by contrast. 

But I was suddenly awaked from the dream by a ser- 
geant. 

“Let me see your pass,” said he. 

I had no pass. I had simply wandered over from the 
camp to “take a look at things.” 

“Then get back to your camp,” said the sergeant, 
harshly. He was a member of the provost guard or some- 
thing. They always had something of this sort hanging 
around the depots. The powers that be knew that the 
cars awakened just such memories as they had awakened 
in me, and that it was one of the greatest known incen- 
tives to desertion. 

I never thought of desertion. But it may be imagined 
what would be the tendency of such a train of thought on 
the part of a soldier who ever dreamed of “skedaddling.” 
So I went back to camp — thinking. 

There perhaps was never a soldier in the army who did 
not have such moments as these, when some outward con- 
ditions or situation would arouse a terribly strong feeling 
of homesickness. With some it was a good deal stronger 
than in others. With some it was irresistible. 

Twas not always cowardice that made soldiers desert. 
Something stronger than fear caused some to forget their 
oaths. Not even the hardships of the winter at the front, 
not even the horrors of the forced march was it that made 
men forget their oaths and disgrace themselves in the eyes 
of their country. It was pure and unadulterated home- 
sickness. 


3io 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Had there been a more liberal policy in regard to the 
granting of furloughs this might have been offset. The 
officers refused furloughs as much as possible for fear 
that the soldiers might desert. In my opinion exactly 
the opposite would have been the result. 

I knew of one poor fellow who deserted because he had 
received word that his wife was on her deathbed. He asked 
for a furlough, but could not get it. There was no reason 
for the refusal at the time. So he obeyed the stronger 
instinct and deserted. When his wife died and was buried 
he started to return, but was captured by the provost 
guard, tried, convicted and sentenced to one year in a mil- 
itary prison. Of what use was that? 

I am not going to defend the deserter. There is noth- 
ing in the world more despicable. But there were de- 
serters and deserters, and in dealing with them there was 
a lamentable lack of common sense and humanity. 

Another thing that made us disgusted just about this 
time was the way the officers were resigning. They were 
going home by the score and new men were taking their 
places. Our captain, Scott, sent in his resignation, and 
it was accepted in a few days, and the first we privates 
knew about it was when he came around and bade us 
good-by. 

Captain Scott was not the most noted officer in the war, 
as officers are regarded, but he was kind to the men. He 
was a boy with the boys. At the close of a weary day’s 
march he would gather the company around him and start 
up a song in which we would all join, and the hour or so 
thus spent relieved many a heavy heart. The other offi- 
cers criticised this severely, saying that it was unmanly, 
and that it was not conducive to discipline to have a cap- 
tain mingling so familiarly with his men. But there was 
no airishness on the part of Captain Scott, and his men 
liked him for it. 

At the same time, I cannot commend this sort of busi- 
ness as a general rule. The more an officer holds himself 
aloof from his men, the more will they respect him in the 
end, and the better will be the discipline. 

This was made manifest by the character of the officer 
who succeeded Captain Scott. It was the late adjutant, 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3n 

Charles H. Hopkins. He was a man of high breeding, 
finely educated, refined, and what might be called a mem- 
ber of the four hundred, had there been such a thing in 
those times. 

He was the exact opposite of Captain Scott. At first he 
would have been considered a martinet and an utterly 
heartless officer. But he understood military matters bet- 
ter than his predecessors, and brought into the officers’ 
tent a degree of dignity and manliness theretofore un- 
known, with the exception of Lieutenant Heber Wells. 

With the men Captain Hopkins was rather austere. 
Everybody soon recognized the fact that he was way 
above him in more than his finer clothes and his shoulder 
straps. It is rather a hard task to take a rough stone and 
make a finished diamond out of it, but that is just what 
Captain Hopkins did with Company K. 

We first feared, then respected, then admired. We 
recognized in him a man of superior intelligence and abil- 
ity — one who could not only command, but one whom 
every man considered it an honor to obey. The result of 
it was that Company K soon obtained the reputation of 
being one of the best companies of the Thirteenth Regi- 
ment, both in discipline and drill, and even those who 
liked the free-and-easy familiarity of Captain Scolt soon 
began to appreciate that it is better to have a captain who 
preserves his dignity on all occasions, and proves by his 
conduct his superiority and his fitness to be the command- 
ing officer. 

So, therefore, not only does this sort of conduct make a 
better officer in the opinion of officers, but the fact is very 
soon appreciated among the privates. The old army offi- 
cers are right. The general rule is good, that the less 
contact and less familiarity, in a strictly personal way, 
there is between officer and private, the better the disci- 
pline and the greater the efficiency of the organization. 

I think this rule holds good in civil life as well as 
military. It is human nature for men to hold those over 
them in higher respect if they keep themselves behind a 
breastwork of dignity that is not carried to such an extent 
that it is offensive. 

There were changes in all the other companies, so 


312 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


many had been the resignations and consequent promo- 
tions. Many of the sergeants stepped one grade higher, 
and discarded the government uniforms of “enlisted men” 
for the finer cloth of “commissioned officers.” 

And let me say right here, that of all the martinets, the 
rough, tyrannizing officers of the army, there were none 
so bad as a man who had just been promoted from the 
ranks to the shoulder straps. For a little while the sud- 
den transition from subserviency to power made the new 
officer a petty tyrant. But fortunately this soon passed 
over, as soon as he became familiar with the privileges 
and novelties of power. 

Some of the promotions from the ranks were obtained 
from what in these days would be called a “pull.” Polit- 
ical influence, friendly connections or relationships with 
those in authority, and similar causes, frequently resulted, 
for instance, in a private being promoted right over the 
heads of a lot of corporals and sergeants whose turn would 
have come next. This always made a great deal of dissat- 
isfaction and grumbling. But it couldn’t be helped. All 
that the disappointed ones could do was to kick — like a 
mule. 

While all this comes in quite properly and consecutively, 
yet it is somewhat of a digression from my story, to which 
I will now return. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3i3 


CHAPTER LIX. 

"the mud march.” 

“Joe,” said my pard, “if you want to see a queer sort 
of a bridge, just come down to the creek.” 

“What is it, John ?” I asked. “What is there so very 
queer about it?” 

“Come down and see. It’s only a little ways.” 

We went down to the little creek that we had already 
crossed over several times. There was still a considerable 
quantity of water in the stream and it was running almost 
with the swiftness of a mill race. 

The bridge was really worth going to see. One had 
been constructed already and the “sappers and miners,” 
as the military engineers were called by the soldiers, were 
at work upon a second one near by. 

The distance between the sides or banks of the stream 
must have been forty or fifty feet. The bridges that were 
being constructed were made of trunks of small trees, 
perhaps five or six inches in diameter, and not one of 
them more than ten feet long. It is not such a hard task 
to erect a bridge fifty feet in length out of timber ten 
feet long, providing one has plenty of spikes or bolts or 
something of that sort to fasten the pieces together, and 
there are piers in the stream to lay the ends, so as to divide 
the bridge into spans. 

But these bridges were being built in a single arch, and 
there was not a pier in the middle. Furthermore, the 
short pieces of timber were not nailed or spiked together. 
They were simply interlocked in a curious manner hardly 
possible to describe without a diagram. The ends passed 
each other, and there were two crosspieces at each end 
of the poles — they were nothing more than thick poles — 
all arranged in such a manner that they bound against 
each other and made a very solid structure. The greater 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3*4 

the weight placed upon them the stronger they were, 
while a comparatively slight pressure upward from un- 
derneath would have knocked the structure apart as if it 
had been of cardboard. 

This was a curiosity to me and the many others who 
watched the erection of the bridges. To make a bridge 
with a forty or fifty-foot span out of pieces not more than 
ten feet long, without a piece of metal or a rope to fasten it 
together, is really a feat in engineering wonderful to con- 
template. 

I have since that time made little bridges on this prin- 
ciple out of matches or toothpicks, with a span of nearly 
a yard, to the great wonder of all who saw it. We saw the 
same sort of bridge many a time after, as well as many 
other curious things that were done by the sappers and 
miners. But when we saw the first of these structures, and 
presently saw heavy baggage wagons crossing them, it 
really did seem as if all the rules of mechanics had been 
upset. 

“I think the building of these bridges is rather sus- 
picious,” said Butterworth. 

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. 

“I think that this army is getting ready for a move.” 

“Why,” I replied, “they said that this was to be our 
winter quarters and that we would remain in camp here 
till the weather got better. I don’t think we are likely to 
make a move for some time yet.” 

“You remember what a time they had getting the 
wagons and artillery through that mud before,” said But- 
terworth. “Well, they are making better arrangements 
this time. Those bridges are so that the wagons can be 
got across better. I tell you they would never have built 
them if they did not intend to make a start. If we were 
to remain here some time longer they would wait till the 
water went down and then ford the creek.” 

“That looks reasonable,” I replied. “But what is the 
sense of changing our position now? We have got as 
good a place to camp in for the winter as we could find 
anywhere. They certainly would not be so foolish as to 
start a campaign with the roads in their present condition, 
would they?” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3*5 

“I shouldn’t think so,” replied Butterworth. “I don’t 
see what they could do if they did make a start, for they 
couldn’t get far anyhow. But there is no telling what they 
won’t do. And I tell you I believe those bridges are not 
being built for nothing. If we are not ordered to pack up 
our knapsacks and get out of here very soon, I’m greatly 
mistaken in my guess.” 

John Butterworth was a pretty good guesser. He had 
a habit of putting this and that together and coming, by a 
sort of intuition he possessed, pretty near the truth. In 
less than twenty-four hours we received orders to pack 
knapsacks and get ready for a march. 

I don’t think we ever received this order less joyfully. 
We had the most comfortable log house we had ever oc- 
cupied. There was plenty of wood and an abundant sup- 
ply of excellent water. It was an ideal spot for winter 
quarters, and we had come to the happy conclusion that 
we were sure of having a comfortable place to remain till 
the spring weather made going better. 

But there’s no rest for the soldier. No sooner does he 
think that he is settled for awhile and proceed to make 
himself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances 
than along comes that relentless order to “Fall in for 
march.” 

We started early in the morning of the 19th of January, 
1863. ' We bade adieu to our comfortable house and our 
cozy camp with genuine regret. We were off for no one 
knew where. “Anudder schlaughter haus,” John Ick 
said. 

We had not gone a great distance before the skies be- 
came overcast, and the gathering clouds in the east be- 
tokened the approach of a great storm. But soldiers do 
not stop for storms. 

Under ordinary circumstances I might not have men- 
tioned the fact of the approaching storm here, for I have 
already described several storms in the front. But this 
storm was one that has gone into history. It has ever 
since been referred to as one of the events of the day. 

It didn’t rain right away, however. Great bodies move 
slowly. Great storms usually come up deliberately. In 
fact the length of time a storm takes in making prelim- 


3 l6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


inary operations, as a general rule, is indicative of its 
duration and severity. We marched through Humphries, 
a place that had just been occupied by General Siegel’s 
corps, and went into camp on the further side of the town, 
near a little stream called Quantico creek. 

In the night the threatened storm broke loose. And 
such a storm ! The rain came down literally in torrents. 
The “pup” tents were of no more use than so many sieves. 
They were called “shelter tents,” but they were anything 
else than a shelter on that occasion. We spent the night 
standing up or walking around, on the principle that a 
man erect affords less surface to be exposed to the rain 
than a man lying down. Besides the water was apparently 
two or three inches deep on the ground, so that we might 
as well have undertaken to go to bed in a bath tub. 

There was not a man who was not drenched to the skin. 
If we had been thrown into the river we could not have 
been more thoroughly soaked. The wood was so saturated 
that it was impossible to build a fire in the morning, and 
we consequently had to go without our much-needed hot 
coffee. The wet clothes, saturated knapsacks and other 
things almost doubled the load we had to carry. But all 
this made no difference. The relentless march was ordered 
to proceed. 

We had not gone far before we were compelled to 
throw away our woolen blankets and other things, which 
were so saturated with water as to be useless, and the 
weight was more than we could carry. And here it was 
in the dead of winter at that ! The loss of the blankets un- 
questionably meant suffering for us when night came, but 
we could not help that. There was no alternative. 

The mud had become deeper than ever, and the tramp 
of so many thousand feet made it sticky and mushy. We 
floundered around, seemingly aimlessly, for awhile and 
finally came to the banks of another creek, which we 
were expected to cross to get to where we were going, 
wherever that might be. 

Here another obstacle was encountered. The rain had 
swollen the creek several times its usual height, so that it 
could not be forded. Fortunately some big trees were 
growing in the neighborhood and these were felled and 



The mud had become deeper than ever, and the tramp of so many 
thousand feet made it sticky and mushy. 


Page 316 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3*7 


dragged to the creek and thrown across. This involved 
no end of labor and consumed a good deal of time. 

It took five or six hours to get the infantry across on 
the rough bridge that had been completed, but then it was 
found that it was impossible to get the artillery and bag- 
gage wagons over. So there was another delay. The 
bridge had to be made more perfect for the wheeled 
vehicles. 

A row of logs was laid across the timbers of the bridge 
and the tops hewed off, till it formed a sort of corduroy 
road. The artillery was then brought across on this 
structure, but here another trouble was experienced. The 
wheels of the heavy cannons only mixed up the mud on 
the other side of the creek, till it became impossible to pull 
the artillery through, no matter how many horses and 
mules there might be harnessed up. 

It is no exaggeration to state that the mud was above 
the hubs of both the cannon wheels and those of the 
wagons and ambulances. But a small portion had got 
across when everything came to a dead halt. Not a wheel 
could be moved. The Army of the Potomac was stuck in 
the mud ! 

For four days we labored there trying to get out of the 
mire. Every soldier had to take his turn at the wheels of 
the wagons and cannons, trying to help push them 
through, but in those four days not more than two miles 
were made. 

Then the infantry, of which we were a part, were or- 
dered to cut loose, and we were marched off in another di- 
rection, and after a long and tedious tramp, or rather I 
should say, /‘wallow,” we finally reached Stafford Court 
House, completely exhausted. It was several days later 
before the artillery got out of their mud hole. They were 
stuck fast in the mire when they should have been shoot- 
ing the big guns at the enemy. 

Of course we did not appreciate at the time what all this 
movement meant, but we found out afterward that Gen- 
eral Burnside had commenced a second attack on Freder- 
icksburg, and this was just what that was. One would 
think that after the first terrible repulse Burnside had re- 
ceived at Fredericksburg he would have hesitated before 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3* 8 

trying it again, or at least waited till the weather was suit- 
able. But he didn’t. He tried it at a time when it was not 
fit for an army to march, let alone engage in a battle with 
a fortified enemy, and the result was another disaster. 

This was the affair that has gone into history as the 
“second Fredericksburg campaign.” Not a shot was fired. 
Instead of engaging the enemy we were stuck fast in the 
mud, not far from Dumphries. As said, history calls it 
“the second Fredericksburg campaign.” 

The boys forever after called it “the mud march.” 

To this day you never hear an old soldier speak of that 
affair without calling it by its natural and appropriate title 
of “Mud March.” 

That event settled the career of General Burnside. Im- 
mediately after that he was relieved from the command 
of the Army of the Potomac. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3 X 9 


CHAPTER LX. 

THE CORPS BADGES. 

General Burnside was right when he said, on some- 
what reluctantly assuming command of the Army of the 
Potomac, that he did not consider himself qualified for the 
position. He had been one of the best corps commanders 
in the army. When ordered by the commanding general 
to perform a certain duty he always did it, and did it 
well. But when it came to commanding a big army him- 
self, and originating the movements as well as executing 
them, he was an utter failure. 

The historian therefore must not blame General Burn- 
side for what he did not do. He was not qualified for the 
position of commander and knew it, and he should never 
have been appointed. But his service in other respects 
in the army and his subsequent brilliant career in congress 
more than offset all his shortcomings as a commanding 
general. 

General Hooker, who succeeded Burnside, was an en- 
tirely different sort of a man. Among the soldiers he al- 
ways went by the sobriquet of “Fighting Joe.” He was a 
dashing, courageous man, one born to command. The sol- 
diers liked him and had the most implicit confidence in his 
ability and judgment. The only fault with General Hooker 
was that he was not exactly a representative of the total 
abstinence party. Not to mince words, he used to get glo- 
riously drunk. 

Truth compells the statement, I regret to say, that if 
this were a disqualification, there would not have been 
many men left in the army to command it. General 
Howard on the Union side and General Stonewall Jack- 
son on the part of the Confederates, are the only ones 
credited with have gone through the war without touching 
intoxicating liquors. There may have been others, and 


320 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


probably were, but these are the only ones I ever heard of. 
I am merely mentioning it as about the only thing that 
could be raised against General Hooker as being a proper 
general to be placed in command of the Army of the 
Potomac. 

The common soldiers did not care for that, however. 
They all liked General Hooker, and the result of his ap- 
pointment was immediately noticeable. The men had be- 
come discouraged and downhearted with the repeated 
failures and defeats, the senseless marches and seemingly 
meaningless maneuvers and they hailed with delight the 
advent of a commander who, they believed, would put 
an end to this sort of work. 

The effects of the improvements resulting from the 
orders given by the new commander were apparent 
throughout the army. Desertions, which had again be- 
come alarmingly frequent, the executions at Leesburg 
having become by this time almost forgotten, were at once 
stopped, and the discipline of the army generally was 
otherwise improved in a thousand different ways. 

General Hooker began to manifest a hitherto unknown 
regard for the individual comfort of the troops. He issued 
orders that did away with many of the existing abuses and 
in some way managed to infuse a degree of life and vigor 
among them such as had never been known before. The 
cavalry had hitherto been a sort of go-as-you-please at- 
tachment of the army, confined to squadrons or regiments, 
and attached to no regular branch or department more 
extensive. He organized them into brigades and divisions, 
the same as the infantry, and soon made them a most im- 
portant branch of the service. 

It is perfectly safe to make the statement that before 
the advent of General Hooker none of the commanders 
had much of an idea of the use of the cavalry anyhow. 
They were used without system or order, and seemed 
merely to exist because it had been the custom from time 
immemorial to have such a thing as cavalry in an army. 
General Hooker, however, changed all this, and from that 
time on the cavalry were made to understand that they 
constituted a most important department of the army. 

The gallant General Phil Kearny, whose death at Chan- 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3 21 


tilly has been before referred to, was a great friend and 
associate of Hooker before the former’s death. One of 
Kearny’s pet schemes was the idea of adopting corps 
badges, after the French idea. He had something of the 
kind for his own corps, but never lived to see it adopted 
by the army generally. It is generally supposed that Gen- 
eral McClellan was the originator of the corps badge idea, 
but as a matter of fact it was General Kearny who orig- 
inated it, and General Hooker who carried it into etfect. 

Remembering the pet idea of his old friend Kearny and 
being impressed with its utility, General Hooker decided 
to adopt it for the entire army immediately after his as- 
sumption of command. The corps badges from that time 
on became a distinguishing mark and their usefulness was 
proven on more than one occasion. 

The badges for the officers were generally made of vel- 
vet with a border of gold braid, like the shoulder straps. 
Those of the men were cut out of a piece of cloth or flan- 
nel. The shape of the badges designated the corps, and 
the color the division of the corps. This designation was 
not subdivided down so low as brigades. All these badges 
were worn on the top of the forage caps, or in the front 
of the hat, if it were of slouch pattern. 

Take the Twelfth corps for instance. Its badge was a 
five-pointed star. If red, it indicated the First Division. If 
white, it meant the Second Division, and blue was the 
color indicative of the Third Division. There were seldom 
more than three divisions in a corps, nor more than three 
brigades in a division. 

No matter where an officer or soldier might be, the 
badge not only indicated what corps he belonged to, but 
even the divisfon. The officers could therefore see the 
command of any man, and the men could the more readily 
discover friends and associates, for it must not be imagined 
that every soldier knew every other soldier, even of his 
own corps or division, by his face. These corps badges 
were, so to speak, the signboards for both officers and pri- 
vates in the army, and they were one of the most useful 
things ever concocted. That this is so may be inferred from 
the fact that ever since the war of the rebellion in this 


3 22 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


country the corps badge has been regularly adopted in the 
army of every civilized country on the face of the globe. 

For further information of the unmilitary reader I will 
give a list of the corps badges of the army, viz. : 

First corps, a lozenge, or “full moon,” as the boys 
called it. 

Second corps, a trefoil, but more commonly designated 
as the ace of clubs or the clover leaf. 

Third corps, a diamond, the badge of Kearny’s old com- 
mand. 

Fourth corps, a triangle. 

Fifth corps, a Maltese cross. 

Sixth corps, a Greek cross. 

Seventh corps, a star and crescent. 

Eighth corps, a six-pointed star. 

Ninth corps, a shield, anchor and cannon. 

Tenth corps, a sort of diamond cross. 

Eleventh corps, a crescent, or more commonly called by 
the boys, “new moon.” 

Twelfth (and afterward Twentieth) corps, a five-cor- 
nered star. 

Thirteenth corps (there was never a Thirteenth corps). 

Fourteenth corps, an acorn. 

Fifteenth corps, a cartridge box in a square. 

Sixteenth corps, a circular cross, made by taking a 
First corps badge and cutting four small wedges out of 
it, from which some of the soldiers called it “pie.” 

Seventeenth corps, an arrow. 

Eighteenth corps, a sort of scolloped-edge diamond. 

Nineteenth corps, an ornamentally shaped Maltese 
cross. 

Twentieth corps, same as the Twelfth. The Twentieth 
corps was composed of the consolidation of the Eleventh 
and Twelfth when they were transferred to General Sher- 
man’s Army of the Cumberland, and the Twelfth corps 
badge was adopted, the “new moon” of the Eleventh being 
discarded. 

Twenty-first corps. This corps was disbanded before 
the badges were adopted. 

Twenty-second corps, a five-armed cross. 

Twenty-third corps, a shield. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


323 


Twenty-fourth corps, a heart. 

Twenty-fifth corps, a diamond inside of a square. 

Potomac cavalry corps, crossed swords, surrounded by 
lines representing- the rays of the sun. 

Wilson’s cavalry, a badge containing crossed swords 
and suspended from a miniature carbine. 

Engineering corps, a rather elaborate badge, consisting 
of a scroll, surmounted with a castle, underneath which 
was an anchor and pair of oars. 

Signal corps, a torch, flanked with a couple of “wig- 
wag” flags. In the army this corps was always referred 
to as the “wig-waggers,” as they are in the New York 
militia to-day. 

I have given all the corps badges here as a matter of 
information, not only for the readers of this generally, but 
for the old soldiers as well. I do not believe that there are 
ten per cent, of the men who served in the army who ever 
saw a complete list of these badges before this. They 
were only acquainted with those of their immediate army. 
The Army of the Potomac comprised the First, Second, 
Third, Fifth, Sixth, Eleventh and Twelfth corps, and 
these badges are perhaps very familiar to the veterans liv- 
ing hereabout. Those residing in the West will be more 
familiar with some of the others. 

Of course General Hooker had nothing to do with any 
of the soldiers except those in the Army of the Potomac, 
but the other generals, hearing of it, thought well of it 
and so adopted the badge system also, until it spread over 
the entire army of the Union. 

It is singular that there never was a Thirteenth corps in 
the army, and consequently no badge for that number. It 
is said that this was on account of there being a super- 
stition against the number thirteen. This rule did not apply 
to regiments, however, and it is a noteworthy fact that 
those bearing the alleged unlucky number turned out 
pretty lucky after all, comparatively speaking. Take the 
Thirteenth New Jersey, for instance. 

There was a Twenty-first corps once, but it was consol- 
idated with the Fourth and some others before the badges 
were adopted, and never rehabilitated. 

I might mention the fact right here that there was never 


3 2 4 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


a Company J in the infantry of our army, and this rule 
holds good to the present day, not only in the armies of 
the United States, but of other countries of the world. 
One reason for this, it is said, is that a J is so like an I 
that the two get mixed in making out the reports. But the 
better and more probable reason is in the fact that at the 
time, centuries ago, when they began to enumerate com- 
panies by letters, there was no letter J in the alphabet. 

Regiments of infantry seldom if ever have more than 
ten companies, which only runs down to the letter K. In 
the cavalry and artillery, however, I have seen companies 
way down to L and M. 

But to return to the story. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


325 


CHAPTER LXI. 

CAPTAIN AND PRIVATE. 

Some of the boys kicked at the adoption of the corps 
badges. It was to have been expected. They would have 
kicked at anything under the sun. Had an officer come 
along with an honorable discharge for every one of them, 
I really believe that two-thirds would have kicked because 
they had been discharged without having asked for it. 

As before stated somewhere, a soldier’s efficiency was 
indicated to a large degree by the vigor of his strength in 
kicking. And with this as a standard of excellence, it can 
never be gainsaid that the Thirteenth Regiment of New 
Jersey Volunteers was one of the very best regiments in 
the army of the Union. 

“Well, what is your objection to the badge, John?” I 
asked Ick, who was one of the most vigorous objectors to 
the new insignia. “Isn’t that pretty red star an addition to 
your make-up ?” 

“I dond want some make-ups, what you callem,” he an- 
swered. “I dond like dot alretty. Dot vas nottings else 
under ein bull’s-eyes. Dot vas for dose rebbels to shoot 
mit, ain’t it.” 

“Shut ye’r blarney,” interrupted Reddy Mahar. “D’ye 
ivver s’pose ye will venture close enough to the innemy 
for ’em to see that little sthar on yer cap? How’s the 
rebels ter see the sthar wid yer head forninst a rubber 
blanket, Oid loike to know ?” 

“Who vas dot hides his head alretty under dot rubber 
blankets, Reddy?” demanded Ick, getting angry. 

“Ye did, ye spalpeen,” replied Reddy. 

“Ven do I dot?” 

“At An-tee-tam.” 

“Who did?” 

“Ye did.” 


326 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“Who told you dot?” 

“Ivverybody. And faith, an’ didn’t Oi see ye meself?” 

“Den vot vas you doing there your own selluf, alretty, 
eh?” 

It wasn’t often that Ick got the better of the ready 
witted Irishman on a repartee, but he did this time. As 
will be remembered, Ick was discovered at the battle of 
Antietam hiding under a rubber blanket, where he was 
found and dragged out by Sergeants Wells and Van 
Orden. Reddy started to taunt Ick about this, but Ick 
had turned the tables on Mahar by demanding to know 
what he was doing there to see it. 

While Reddy was always ready to make a joke at the 
expense of John Ick, he didn’t like to have it turned on 
himself, and this turn of the tables made him hopping mad, 
and he completely forgot himself. 

“Oi didn’t say Oi was there meself,” said Reddy un- 
blushingly. “Oi said that ivverybody said that you hid 
ye’rself forninst the rubber blanket while the foightin’ 
was goin’ on, and ye can’t deny it, that’s phwat ye can’t.” 

“You just said you vas there und see me under dot 
blanket, under you vas notting but ein liars all the times. 
Dond he vas said so, fellers?” (addressing the crowd.) 

We had to corroborate John in this instance. He had 
Reddy foul and no mistake. Now when Mahar was cor- 
nered he always wanted to settle the matter with a fight, 
and he quickly came to the conclusion then and there that 
the only way he could retrieve his mistake was to give 
John Ick a trouncing. 

Off went his coat and hat, and he spat on his hands 
ready for the fray. Ick was in a good humor over the way 
it had turned out, and made no attempt at self-defense. 
Mahar began berating him for being a coward, and the 
words were becoming loud and angry when suddenly Cap- 
tain Hopkins put in an appearance. 

Now Captain Hopkins was a man who never lost his 
dignity, and he had the respect of every member of Com- 
pany K to that extent that every one was on his good be- 
havior when he was around. The incipient fracas was 
therefore ended as if by magic. Mahar slowly put on his 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


327 


coat and hat again, and Ick went to his tent a moment 
afterward. 

Captain Hopkins stood there like a statue, looking at 
the crowd without saying a word. But everybody knew 
what sort of a man he was., and soon the crowd was dis- 
persed quietly and orderly as if it was a handful of snow 
melting under the rays of the sun. I was one of the last 
to remain. 

“Come up to my tent, Joe,” said the captain. “I have 
some writing for you to do.” 

I went. But there was no writing of importance, only 
a letter or so, the order having been given me simply to 
get me to the captain’s headquarters. 

“What was the trouble down there?” asked Captain 
Hopkins. 

“Oh, nothing to speak about,” I replied. “Only a few 
words between Ick and Mahar. It didn’t amount to any- 
thing.” 

“Those fellows are always quarreling and fighting, are 
they not?” asked the captain. 

“It doesn’t amount to anything, captain,” I replied. 
“They are the best friends in the world.” 

“They certainly have a strange way of showing it,” said 
the captain. “But then they are both pretty good soldiers. 
I don’t suppose we can repress the exuberance of such 
fellows.” 

“Not unless you kill them,” I replied laughingly. 

“Then I guess we will have to stand it,” replied Captain 
Hopkins, “at least for a while. The Lord knows they 
may get killed soon enough.” 

“Why, do you think we are likely to get into another 
fight soon ?” I asked, somewhat nervously. 

“Not right away,” was the reply. “But when we do 
make a start I think it will be something big. We have 
got ‘Fighting Joe’ over us now, and you probably know 
what that means. From what I hear I don’t think there 
will be any more fighting till spring opens, but when it 
does happen it will be a big battle, and I think a decisive 
one. I think General Hooker intends that the next fight 
shall settle the whole thing.” 

“But you don’t think this will happen soon?” I asked 


328 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


again. I did not like to hear this matter-of-fact talk about 
a tremendous battle that was going to “settle the whole 
thing.” There was altogether too much suggestiveness 
about its settling me at the same time. 

“No,” replied the captain. “As I said before, I think we 
will remain somewhere about this neighborhood till the 
winter weather is over. We have had two campaigns this 
winter, and both have resulted disastrously, and I don’t 
think that anything more of that sort will be attempted. 
But General Hooker is making preparations and trying to 
improve the army in a manner that was never tried be- 
fore, and I think his idea is to have it in readiness for a 
supreme effort.” 

“I suppose that you, being an officer, have a chance to 
hear all about these things, captain. You know that every- 
thing is blind to us men. We don’t know what anything is 
for, but merely obey orders and follow like so many sheep 
wherever ordered.” 

“There could be no discipline if it were otherwise,” re- 
plied the captain. “If the men always knew where they 
were going, they would sometimes weaken. It is a part 
of the science of war to make the rank and file as much 
of a machine as possible. I cannot see how there could be 
a successful army otherwise.” 

“But I think it would be better if the men did know 
some of these things sometimes,” I replied. “I believe that 
the result would be better and that the men would act more 
willingly and do more to carry out the movement if they 
were treated more as intelligent men instead of, as you 
say, part of a mere machine.” 

“That is a common idea,” said the captain. “But it 
would not work. When you get older and have more ex- 
perience you will understand this matter better than you 
do now. I can see very plainly why it is better to keep 
the rank and file in as much ignorance as possible.” 

“I think it is cruel — at least from my standpoint,” said 
I. When together in the privacy of the captain’s tent we 
were quite friendly, and our difference in rank was for- 
gotten. The captain went further in this respect than he 
probably would, because I never took advantage of it. I 
knew my station. When I was outside of the tent, or when 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


329 


there was any one else present, I was as quiet and humble 
as the lowest soldier in the company. This was a trait that 
the captain liked and appreciated and he thought more of 
me for it. When we had these little conversations we were 
only two American citizens on a level footing. When we 
were outside, I was a private, he a captain. 

“So you think it is cruel?” said the captain, half- 
musingly. “Well, perhaps it is. But tell me, Joe, if you 
can, what there is about war that is not cruelty ?” 

This was a poser. War and cruelty are synonymous. 

“But you are mistaken,” added the captain, “about my 
knowing much more about what is going on than you do. 
Captains are kept in nearly as much ignorance of general 
movements as the men. Even the colonel does not know 
what is going on till he is ordered to do something, and 
all that he has to do is to obey orders without asking any 
questions. The commanding general and his corps com- 
manders perhaps are the only ones who really know the 
why and wherefore of everything. But then some things 
do leak out, nevertheless. We hear little things here and 
there, and put them together and form our own conclu- 
sions, and sometimes they turn out right — sometimes 
not.” 

“Then you are only inferring from what you see that 
General Hooker’s intentions are something like you have 
said ?” 

“That’s all, Joe,” replied he. “But I guess you will find 
out that it will come out about that way. The next battle 
we get into will be one of the hardest ever fought, but it 
will not take place till the winter is entirely over. You 
may depend upon that.” 

For this respite I felt grateful, but I did not give the 
captain any intimation of my feelings just then. 

“Don’t say anything to any of the men of what I have 
said to you,” said the captain, as I turned to leave. 

“I will not,” I said. “I think you understand me well 
enough.” 

“I do,” was his answer. “Otherwise I would not be so 
free with you, only a private.” 

“Only a private,” I repeated with a touch of irony. 

“I never thought of it before,” said Captain Hopkins. 


33 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“You deserve something better. Would you like to be a 
corporal ?” 

A corporal? A non-commissioned officer? I hesitated 
at the temptation over the possible promotion. 

“Would it deprive me of my place as company clerk ?” 
I asked. 

“Yes, I am not allowed to detail a non-commissioned 
officer for that purpose. I can only use a private for that. 
And I don’t know whom else I could take that would suit 
me as well, after all.” 

“How about Jimmy Post?” I asked. 

“Post ? He’s a good man, but — but I’d rather have you, 
for several reasons.” 

“That settles it, captain,” said I. “I would rather be 
your secretary than wear the two stripes of a corporal.” 

“Thank you,” said the captain. “That’s complimentary, 
and I’ll not forget it.” 

“When I go for anything, captain,” said I, “it will be 
for something higher than a corporal.” I had certain am- 
bitions, and I threw this out as a feeler. 

“All right,” replied Captain Hopkins. “When the time 
comes, you can depend on me for anything you want.” 

I left the captain’s tent in more than a good humor, and 
I remembered the captain’s kind promise, and months 
afterward took advantage of it. He faithfully kept his 
word. 

But of that later. I will say, however, that the time did 
come when I did wear a shoulder strap and carry a com- 
mission signed by the President of the United States, and 
Captain Hopkins was largely influential in the achieve- 
ment of that much-desired result. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


33i 


CHAPTER LXII. 

WHEREIN GLADSTONE AND J DIFFER. 

It was on the 24th of January when the Thirteenth 
Regiment went into camp at Fairfax Court House, if my 
memorandum of the date is correct. A thickly wooded 
pine forest was selected as the site for the camp, and there 
was an abundant supply of water. It was in every respect 
as good a place for the camp as the one we had left before 
the “mud march.” 

“Well, John/’ said I to my pard, “here we are again, 
and I suppose the best thing we can do is to build another 
house.” 

“I don’t see much sense in it, Joe,” replied he ; “we seem 
to be doing nothing but building houses and moving out 
of them again. As soon as we get nicely settled then 
along comes that confounded order to fall in for a march. 
What’s the use of it? Why not make ourselves as com- 
fortable as possible without going to all the trouble?” 

“But we are likely to stay here now till the winter is 
over,” I replied, “and we might as well make ourselves 
comfortable.” 

“What makes you think we will remain here any time ?” 
asked John. 

“Well, I just think so,” I replied. I did not want to 
tell him what Captain Hopkins had told me confidentially, 
but I gave him to understand that I had good reason to 
believe that we would remain in that camp for a while. 

“You do seem to find out things, somehow,” said John, 
“and if you say we are likely to stay here for a while I will 
take some stock in it. If you say so we will begin on the 
new house at once.” 

% “I think we had better,” was my only response. 

Butterworth fell in with my suggestion. Somehow I 
was always the dominant spirit of our partnership — the 


332 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“head of the house,” so to speak. We got axes and saws 
and started out into the woods, where we found nearly all 
the other members of the regiment engaged in gathering 
material for the construction of their primitive residences. 

It took a couple of days to complete our log house, and 
when done it was the largest and best that we had ever 
had. It was fortunate that we took so much pains with 
it, for, as prophesied, it was our abode for a considerable 
time to come, and we passed many pleasant hours in it. 

We had plenty to do while in that camp in a military 
sense. There was no end to the drilling and other ma- 
neuvering. I was excused from company drill by reason 
of being the company clerk, but there was no end of regi- 
mental and brigade drilling. The constant fear of being 
raided by the enemy’s cavalry made the officers pay espe- 
cial attention to a peculiar formation specially intended as 
a defense against attacks from that branch of the opposing 
army. 

This was technically called “forming into a hollow 
square.” The title indicates the character of the forma- 
tion. The regiment was formed in a square, four deep, 
which made it look like a human fence around a vacant 
lot. I said “vacant,” but that is hardly correct, for there 
was something always inside the square — the officers. 
The enlisted men formed the fence or wall inside of which 
the commissioned officers were comparatively secure. 

All the rifles were equipped with bayonets. The outer 
edge of men knelt on one knee and held the rifle with the 
bayonet sticking out at an angle of about forty-five de- 
grees. Behind them, stood another row of men at a charge 
bayonet. This made a double row of glistening bayonets 
sticking toward the supposititious enemy, like a chevaux 
de frise. The two inner rows of men were there ready to 
shoot their guns over the heads of the men in front. 

These hollow squares were supposed to be invincible. 
And so far as an attack of cavalry was concerned they 
were practically so. No troop of horses could stand or 
run against that array of bayonets if the men only stood 
to their posts. But the trouble was that it took some timfe 
to get the men to understand this. When they saw a 
whole company of horsemen galloping toward them, the 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


333 


natural instinct was to get out of the way, and even in the 
practice attacks that we had it was seldom that the men 
all stood their ground. 

Useful as this precautionary drill was, however, we 
never had occasion to use it in actual warfare. The Thir- 
teenth Regiment, so far as I ever heard, never was at- 
tacked by cavalry at a time when they were in a hollow 
square. 

Another drill that we had was called “bayonet drill.” 
This was a pet scheme of Major Grimes, who seemed to 
always imagine that the regiment would some time get 
into a hand-to-hand conflict with the enemy, and that it 
would be a good thing to know just exactly how to stick 
the sharp end of the bayonet through the enemy’s intes- 
tines, give it a sort of corkscrew twist, and then be able to 
complacently contemplate the sight of a rebel writhing in 
death agony on the ground. 

With that, the “guard,” and “tierce,” and “parry,” and 
other things, and the jumping sideways and forwards and 
backwards, it would be hard to imagine any more vigor- 
ous sort of exercise than the bayonet drill. We were put 
through it day after day, till every man became a sort of 
an athlete of the high jumping variety. 

This was only a silly waste of time. Perhaps every regi- 
ment in the army had to go through the experiment at 
one time or another, but it was finally dropped as useless. 
It is unnecessary to state that very seldom did the two 
armies come close enough together to indulge in the inter- 
esting pastime of making holes in each other’s anatomy. 
And even if they had, under the exciting circumstances 
it is not likely that any man would ever have remembered 
the first thing about the scientific instructions he had re- 
ceived in the best way of doing it. 

The worst experience I ever had while at this place 
was to be detailed one day to go out and build a corduroy 
road. A corduroy road is made by placing felled trees 
side by side along the road, like the planking on a bridge. 
This made a pretty rough sort of a thoroughfare, and the 
wagons went bumping over it at a fearful rate, while as 
for marching over it, it was something terrible. But it 
was better than deep mud at that. 


334 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Now I had never cut down a tree in my life. When 
we were building log houses John Butterworth did the 
felling and I helped in other ways. But this day I was 
given an ax and set to work cutting down trees. 

The first two or three went all right, although I was al- 
ways in a quandary as to which way the confounded thing 
was going to fall. All that I could do was to wait till it 
began to move and then scamper out of the way. Some of 
the fellows knew how to make the tree fall in any direc- 
tion they desired, but that was a mystery utterly beyond 
my comprehension. My trees fell whither they wisted, 
and they generally wisted to fall in a manner that threat- 
ened the life of some of the other fellows who did not see 
the thing coming in their direction. 

The first two or three were small trees, not over six or 
seven inches in diameter. 

But then the confounded officer in command of the 
work took it into his head that larger trees were indis- 
pensable, and he set me to work on one at least three feet 
thick, a tremendous fellow. It was a tall pine, and the 
wood seemed to be extraordinarily hard and tough, while 
my ax appeared to be as dull as a hoe. 

I contemplated the job with discouragement, but went 
to work with a will. I never could see what fun Gladstone 
could find in cutting down trees. There isn’t much to 
amuse a man in England if he calls that fun. 

I hacked and hacked. I cut on one side and a while on 
the other, trying to see which side of the tree was the soft- 
est. My hands, unaccustomed to such work, became cov- 
ered with blisters, my arms and legs ached, and the 
sweat poured from me in a stream, notwithstanding the 
fact of its being midwinter. At the end of two hours I 
had not succeeded in making more than a shallow ridge 
in the tree, hardly enough to have set the sap running. 

Then I gave up in disgust. I called the sergeant and 
told him there was no use of my trying to cut down that 
tree. I never did such a thing before, and told him that 
it would take six months for me to get that tree down, and 
I felt sure that when it did come down it would kill some- 
body, for I had no idea as to which way it would fall. 

The sergeant took pity on me and told me to take a rest. 



I hacked and hacked. I cut on one side and a while on the other, trying 
to see which side of the tree was the softest. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


335 


He called another man, a tall fellow from the Wisconsin 
regiment, a backwoodsman who had been accustomed to 
that sort of work. 

“Which way do you want this tree to fall, sergeant?” 
he asked. 

“Right about here,” said the non-commissioned officer, 
marking the place in the ground with his foot. 

I was filled with admiration. Here was a man who 
could not only cut down a tree, but who could make it 
fall just where he wanted it to fall. And he did so. It 
seemed but a few moments, with a remarkably few dex- 
terous blows with the ax, that the tree was nearly cut 
through. The wood seemed a good deal softer and the ax 
much sharper for that man than it had been for me, some- 
how. 

Finally the tree wavered, moved and fell. It came down 
almost exactly where the sergeant had marked the place 
for it to fall. This was the difference between a man used 
to the work of cutting down a tree and one who had 
never had any experience in that sort of thing. But I was 
willing to bet a day’s rations of hard-tack that I could 
beat that man setting type. 

I didn’t have to cut any more trees. They set me to 
work helping to carry them and at other things, till night 
came, and I went back to camp probably more tired out 
and generally used up than I had ever been before. I 
begged the captain that he would never let me be detailed 
for such a service again, as I was never calculated for that 
kind of work. Captain Hopkins did not know that I had 
been sent to do that sort of labor, and he laughed at my 
description of the ordeal. But he saw to it that I never 
had anything like it again, and truth compels me to state 
that Company K escaped the most of that sort of menial 
labor. 

Of course there came times, in the face of a battle, when 
every man, and sometimes some of the officers, had to 
come to the rescue and assist in the hurried construction 
of breastworks. On such occasions, however, a sort of 
feeling that it was necessary for personal safety overcame 
the repugnance to such labor. 

These things are described because they are legitimately 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


33 6 

a part of the life of a soldier. The men in the army had 
something - else to do besides shooting at the enemy and 
reducing the number of Confederate soldiers. 

The paymaster was long a-coming in those days. We 
were months behind with our pay. The most of us had 
gone to the fullest extent in running credit at the sutler’s, 
and we missed the little luxuries that we had been accus- 
tomed to get there. One day there was a good deal of 
mysterious consultation and whispering around camp, 
which for some time I could not get the hang of. But 
after a while the other fellows took me into their con- 
fidence and let me into the scheme. 

The sutler had just laid in a new stock. His counters 
were piled high with all sorts of tempting dainties. In the 
rear part of the tent we even saw many bottles of whiskey 
and other things that made the boys’ mouths water, for 
'‘it had been a long time between drinks.” Perhaps had 
there been plenty of it within reach I would never have 
thought of such a thing, but now that it was practically 
impossible to get, the more I thought of it the more it 
seemed as if a good horn of the real old stuff would be 
just about the thing. 

The scheme was nothing more or less than to make a 
midnight raid on the sutler’s tent and help ourselves to the 
first things within reach. 

Butterworth, my pard, did not altogether approve of 
the idea, but he was overruled, and there were enough of 
us without him to carry the thing through. The plan was 
for about twenty of us to wait for a signal, and simul- 
taneously sneak out in the middle of the night, and then 
raid the tent of the sutler. I’ll admit that I was one of the 
twenty midnight prowlers, and burglars, if you will. The 
others were all in it in a secondary sense. That is, they 
were to keep watch, give whatever alarm might be neces- 
sary, and afterward partake of the booty. 

Midnight came, and I quietly sneaked out and walked 
softly to the sutler’s tent. I found the others there and 
ready for the depredation. 

The leader of the gang gave the signal, and the attack 
began. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


337 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

THE SUTLER RAIDED. 

The plan had been to cut the ropes that braced up the 
tent, on all sides at once, so that the whole business would 
come down together and then make the raid on the good 
things there concealed. 

Usually the sutler and his assistants slept in the back 
part of the tent and we supposed that they were there 
this time. Our plan had been to grab the things and hide 
them somewhere before the sutlers could extricate them- 
selves from the folds of the tent and get after us. We 
had the places all ready to hide the articles, and we were 
to feign sleep and profess ignorance of the whole thing 
if any officers came around afterward to make inquiries. 

We were destined to have better luck than this, how- 
ever. For some reason none of the sutlers were asleep in 
the tent that night. The cords were cut simultaneously on 
all sides and the tent came down with a flop in a heap, 
just as expected. It is hardly necessary to state that what 
we were after was the whiskey, or “commissary,” as it 
was called then. We each grabbed a bottle of the sup- 
posed whiskey and hastened back to our log houses, hid 
the liquor, and fell asleep with a suddenness that would 
have surprised a hypnotist. 

We waited patiently for the expected alarm, but none 
came. Everything was as quiet as usual. Directly some 
one poked his head in the door of our house and said that 
there was not a sign of life around the sutler’s tent, and 
that we might go and help ourselves to whatever else we 
wanted. We did so, and could scarcely find room to hide 
the purloined goods. 

Then we proceeded to sample the liquor. I didn’t know 
exactly at the time what was in the bottle Butterworth 
and I had, nor did we care, so long as it was liquor, but it 


338 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


tasted just like the juice off the mince prepared for a 
mince pie. It was nectar ! 

But the confounded thing flew to my head, and that 
was the last I remembered till morning, when Orderly 
Sergeant Van Orden stuck in his head and asked how it 
was that we did not turn out for the morning roll call. 
I got up as best I could, for my head was spinning around 
like a top. Butterworth had evidently taken less, for he 
was not so badly affected. When we got out to the line 
there were only seven men there. There should have been 
some seventy. Most of the rest were really sick. And no 
wonder, when it is explained that the liquor on which we 
had got boozed was Hostetter’s bitters ! 

By some bad luck the captain had taken a notion that 
morning to turn out to see the reveille roll call, and he 
asked how it was that the other men had not turned out. 

“I don’t know, captain,” replied Hank Van Orden, the 
orderly sergeant. “I can’t wake them up this morning. I 
don’t know what is the matter with them.” 

Captain Hopkins stuck his head in one log hut and then 
another. From both he brought an empty bottle. 

“I guess this accounts for it,” said he. “What does this 
mean, anyhow?” 

Sergeant Van Orden hadn’t been let into the racket, 
and he was in ignorance of what it did mean. He told 
the captain so. 

“The whole company’s drunk,” said the captain. 
“Where did they get the liquor, I would like to know.” 

Just at this moment the adjutant came down. 

“Captain, are anv of your men in this ?” he asked. 

“In what?” asked Captain Hopkins. 

“In this robbery of the sutler’s tent. Don’t you see that 
it is down? That isn’t the worst of it. There has been a, 
robbery. Nearly all the liquor there was in the tent has 
been stolen, as well as some other things.” 

The captain pointed to the two bottles that he had 
thrown on the ground. 

“That looks somewhat suspicious, doesn’t it?” he said. 

“The colonel will be furious when he hears of this,” 
said the adjutant. “There’s trouble ahead for all who 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


339 


were concerned in it. Try and find out which of your men 
are implicated/’ 

I began to shake in my boots, but said not a word. I 
think that I was the last man in the company the captain 
would have suspected, for I was there all right in the line 
for roll call, and the captain knew that I wasn’t much of 
a hand for liquor anyway. 

Well, the captain and orderly sergeant made a search, 
and a partially emptied bottle was found in nearly every 
tent or hut in the company. The sutler must have had 
a big stock on hand, for not only was Company K con- 
cerned, but several of the other companies had been in 
the scheme, and a similar discovery was made there also. 

Now I never knew how it came out the way it did, but 
as a matter of fact not a single man was punished for that 
night’s escapade. In the first place it was against the rule 
for the sutlers to have more liquor or “bitters” on hand 
than just sufficient to be used for medical purposes, or 
perhaps an occasional little “blow out” on the part of the 
officers. Then the sutler we had at that time was a mean 
sort of a fellow, a regular Shylock, who took advantage 
not only of the men, but of the officers as well, whenever 
the opportunity offered. So he did not have much sym- 
pathy as far as that was concerned. But be it as it may, 
none of us were ever punished, and not much was said 
about the matter beyond a little “general order” on dress 
parade that the men should remember that they should act 
as law abiding citizens in the army the same as if they 
were at home, and that it was as much of a crime to break 
into a store there and steal as it was in a city. This was 
the only hint, in an official way, that we ever had about the 
matter, and it was the nearest that we ever had to a pun- 
ishment. 

Indeed the result was the other way, for the next day 
orders came that the credit at the sutler’s would be ex- 
tended, and the door was opened so that we were able to 
get whatever we liked on the strength of the credit of 
future months’ pay. So as a matter of fact, instead of be- 
ing punished, we were practically rewarded for the part 
we had taken in the robbery of the sutler’s tent. 

They say that there are some kinds of liquor that will 
keep a fellow drunk several days. This must have been 


34 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the sort that we had on that occasion, for it was several 
days before I fully recovered from that debauch. I felt 
heartily ashamed of myself, not only for that, but because 
it was the first time I had ever been concerned in what 
might be called a burglary at night. And it was the last 
time I was ever guilty of such a crime. But then we were 
soldiers, and there are few men who served in the army 
that cannot relate some such experience. 

We didn’t often get the chance to obtain liquor while in 
the front. Occasionally after great exposure it would be 
dealt out sparingly to the men. I remember one occasion. 

It was while we were stationed at Fairfax that we went 
out on one of those mysterious raids or reconnaissances, 
and we had to ford a creek. The water was up to our 
waists and it was very cold. 

It so happened that we had been much troubled with 
the pestiferous pendiculus investimenti and the surgeon 
had said that anguinum, or blue ointment, was a good 
thing to kill the nits. We had saturated the seams of our 
clothing with this salve, which is largely composed of 
mercury. 

There is danger in getting wet after using any sort of 
a mercurial ointment, for the result is salivation. This, 
judging from my own personal experience, is one of the 
most horrible sensations. The saliva runs from the mouth, 
the eyes water and the whole body aches terribly. 

When we laid ourselves down that night on the wet 
ground, soaked to the skin as we were, the flesh seemed 
too soft to bear the weight of one’s bones, and one could 
feel his skeleton from the top of his head to the soles of 
his feet. The sensation is simply horrible. One felt as if 
he were nothing but a skeleton, and every individual bone 
appeared to sink into the soft flesh with a sickening pain. 

It was then that the surgeon ordered to be dispensed a 
good ration of “commissary,” and if liquor ever did a man 
good it was then and there. 

After being at Fairfax Station for a while the Thir- 
teenth Regiment was ordered to change camp and we 
marched to Stafford Court House, a place that enters very 
largely into the history of the regiment, for it was from 
that place that we went into the greatest engagement in 
which the Thirteenth ever participated. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


34i 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION. 

We were stationed at Stafford Court House from the 
early part of March till near the end of April, and taking 
it altogether it was the quietest time we ever had while in 
the army. It was officially given out that there would be 
no more fighting or marching till the spring fairly opened ; 
and we were in fact in training for the arduous campaign 
of 1863, which, as all will remember, was the turning year 
of the war. It may be truthfully stated that till the middle 
of 1863 it was a grave question which would win, the 
North or the South. England and other foreign countries 
had manifested a strong sympathy for the Confederacy. 
Peace commissioners were endeavoring to settle the con- 
test in a manner that would have left the South the win- 
ner. The Confederacy appeared to be more desperate and 
determined than ever, and throughout the North there 
was a feeling of despair and a sentiment that the best 
thing to do would be to give up the struggle before more 
lives were sacrificed. 

But the fact that the North meant business was evident 
from the Emancipation Proclamation of President Lin- 
coln. That settled all questions of peace. It was from 
that moment “a fight to the finish,” with equal determina- 
tion on both sides. No one could foretell the result. It 
was an even contest till Gettysburg, and then the tide 
turned in favor of the North, although it took nearly two 
years after that to finally suppress the rebellion. 

Many of the men about this time succeeded in obtaining 
furloughs. I had the opportunity to go home for ten days, 
but did not. Only so many were allowed to each company, 
and I gave up my chance in favor of one of the men who 
had a sick wife at home. 

I was rather glad that I did so, for all the men came 


34 * 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


back discouraged, downhearted and despairing. They had 
become imbued with the feeling of discouragement that 
prevailed at home, and it was worse coming back than the 
original enlistment, for every soldier, when leaving home 
from his furlough, bade good-by to his family with the 
impression that it was the last time he would ever see 
them. For some of them indeed it was the last time ! 

We had not been long at Stafford when several of the 
companies of the Thirteenth were ordered on detached 
service at White House Landing, on Aquia creek. There 
was nothing but a small dock there, where curious little 
stern wheel steamboats landed provisions from Washing- 
ton. Our duties there were to be 'longshoremen or steve- 
dores, but Butterworth and I did not go on duty the first 
day. 

We spent the entire day building a log house, and by 
night had a fine one. But we slept in it only one night. 
The next morning we were ordered back to camp and an- 
other company took our place. I never knew why Com- 
pany K had been returned in this manner. But I was not 
sorry for it for one, for the work of unloading provisions 
from the boat and placing them in the baggage wagons 
was laborious. 

Many of the men received boxes from home containing 
quantities of good things, and many of them also con- 
tained whiskey. This made some of the men drunk, and 
after that all the boxes were inspected by the officers be- 
fore being turned over to the men. Three of the boxes 
contained nothing but whiskey ! 

The officers took charge of all this. What they did with 
the liquor history does not tell, but one might guess ! 

Another discovery was made by the inspection of those 
boxes. Fully one-third of them contained citizens’ clothes. 
It looked as if one-third of the recipients of favors from 
home were making preparations to desert. In fact there 
had been a good many desertions before this, and the 
officers wondered how the men had succeeded in getting 
away without detection. This explained the business. 
After the wholesale confiscation of citizens’ clothes the de- 
sertions were materially lessened. 

We had considerable fun in the sporting line while at 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


343 


Stafford. Several times we obtained permission to go to 
Aquia creek, where the fishing was good, and we caught 
many shad with the most primitive sort of nets. The 
greatest fun, however, was in shooting ducks. 

I never saw so many wild ducks in my life. The river 
seemed to literally swarm with them. We had no shot- 
guns, nor even shot, for that matter, but we got around 
this very nicely by cutting bullets into small bits called 
“slugs,” and shooting them from the rifles. Indeed we 
became quite expert, shooting the ducks with the full- 
sized bullets, although naturally this tore the birds to 
pieces so that they were practically useless. 

The greatest difficulty was in getting the ducks after 
we had shot them out on the river. There were no dogs, 
of course, and only one small boat, a sort of dug-out, 
which had to be utilized in turn by the men. A large pro- 
portion of the ducks consequently were not recovered, 
but we got enough for our own use, and we had duck 
cooked in every possible and impossible style. 

One of our duties at Stafford Court House was to erect 
a gigantic stockade. What this was for I don’t know. 
There was no enemy anywhere around at the time, and 
there seemed to be no possibility of there ever being an 
engagement in that neighborhood. But I presume that the 
theory was that if we were kept busy we would not get 
into mischief. 

One day while at Stafford Court House Captain Hop- 
kins came to me and asked me if I didn’t want a day 
off? 

“A day off? What do you mean, captain?” asked I, 
wonderingly. 

“Well, if you do,” he replied, “you are at liberty to go. 
Come to my tent and I will give you a pass. You will 
also find a horse there for you.” 

A horse for me ! What could the captain mean ? 

However, I went up to the captain’s tent and sure 
enough there was a horse — two of them, in fact. Both 
were saddled and held by a tall cavalryman with yellow 
trimmed riding jacket and boots. 

“This is Crowell, orderly,” said Captain Hopkins by 
way of introduction. The big cavalryman looked at me. 


344 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I imagined not with a very high degree of admiration. 
And I didn’t look very pretty. 1 had not had my hair cut 
in some time, and looked like a football player. I had been 
sleeping in the dirt so much that I presented anything but 
a tidy appearance. But then I was as well fixed as the 
average soldier. 

“General Stagg presents his compliments,” said the or- 
derly, “and invites you to come and take dinner with 
him.” 

General Stagg? For a moment I could not recall who 
that could be. Then I remembered. It was Peter Stagg, 
the brother of my old companion in the Guardian office, 
John Stagg, who had enlisted in the Eleventh New Jersey 
— the same John Stagg who is to-day the chief of the 
Paterson Fire Department. 

I remembered that Peter, who was also a Paterson boy, 
had moved to Michigan when he was married, and knew 
that he had entered the service as a captain in the First 
Michigan Cavalry, but I had not heard that he had become 
a general. 

“Do you mean Peter Stagg, of the First Michigan Cav- 
alry ?” I asked the orderly. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “He was our colonel. He has 
been promoted to brigadier-general. He sent me over to 
bring you to our camp and have dinner with him.” 

“Well, well,” said I, in amazement, “and so Peter 
Stagg’s a general. And he wants me to come to take din- 
ner with him. Well, well!” I couldn’t get over the sur- 
prise. 

“Yes,” said the orderly, “and he sent his horse over for 
you to ride. This is the critter.” 

I looked at the horse. I hadn’t particularly noticed the 
animal before, for I was so astonished that Peter Stagg 
had become a general (and by the way he was the only 
Paterson boy that ever did become a general), that I 
hadn’t noticed anything. But when I saw that horse I was 
struck with terror. 

I never had much experience riding horseback. Taking 
my father’s docile old nag to water was about the extent 
of my experience in that direction. But here before me 
was a big black stallion, that looked as if he could only be 
ridden by a Buffalo Bill or a cowboy. I confess that I 



“ General Stagg presents his compliments,” said the orderly, “ and 
invites you to come and take dinner with him.” 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


345 


weakened. But I didn’t want to let the cavalryman think 
I was afraid. 

“Say, pard,” said I familiarly — and my familiar tone 
at once put me on good terms with my to-be-escort — “I 
am a pretty looking fellow to take dinner with a general 
of cavalry, am I not? I look as if I ought to go to the bar- 
ber’s and tailor’s before I tackle anything like that. I 
think I had better send my regrets.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the orderly. “You’re all 
right. Besides, the general said that I must insist on your 
coming if you could get away, and the captain here says 
that’s all right. So come along. Here’s your horse.” 

Again I looked at the skittish looking stallion. Then 
I looked at the tamer looking animal of the orderly, which 
I could distinguish was a private soldier’s steed from the 
comparatively plainness of its trappings. 

“Hadn’t I better ride your horse, orderly?” I asked. 
“He looks less frisky. This stallion here will break my 
neck.” 

“No,” replied the orderly, “you take the general’s crit- 
ter. He is as gentle as a kitten. You couldn’t ride mine. 
He is a bucker and would throw you off before you got 
half a mile on the way.” 

“How far is General Stagg’s camp from here ?” I asked. 

“About twelve miles. It is straight across the country. 
We don’t follow the road, but cut across lots. It’s a good 
route and a pleasant ride. You will enjoy it, I’m sure.” 

“I will if that horse doesn’t break my neck,” said I, “but 
I suppose I will have to tackle it.” 

The boys had begun to gather around, wondering what 
was going on. Some of them envied me the chance of the 
trip. Others I thought regarded me with admiration on 
account of having been honored with an invitation to dine 
with a general. But Stansfield took the starch out of me 
with the remark he made. 

“Say, Joe,” said he, “if you get back alive from your 
ride on that horse you’re a lucky cuss. I wouldn’t get on 
that stallion’s back for a farm.” 

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” I replied, jauntily. But I lied; 
I was scared to death. I nearly fell off with trembling. 

We started on our ride, and to tell the truth I never ex- 
pected to survive the journey. 


34 ^ 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXV. 

I DINE WITH THE GENERAL. 

I hadn't ridden far, however, on General Stagg’s 
stallion before I began to feel perfect confidence. A nicer 
saddle horse no man ever strode. But I had to take some 
instructions before I knew how to guide the animal. 

When I pulled the right hand rein he turned to the left, 
and vice versa. Either the horse or I had lost the com- 
pass. 

“That horse is trained for the cavalry service,” said 
the orderly, “and you have to handle him a little different 
from what you would a farm horse. Just hold the reins 
together in the left hand. When you want to turn to the 
right, hold your hand over to the right. That presses 
the bridle reins against the left side of the horse and makes 
him go to the right. When you want to go to the left 
you hold the hand over to the left, so that the rein presses 
on the right side.” 

“Then,” said I, “you really pull the left side of his bit 
to make him go to the right, and the right side of his bit 
to turn to the left. Is that it?” 

“I s’pose it is,” replied my escort. “But cavalrymen 
don’t pay any attention to the bit. They drive by the rein. 
The right hand is supposed to be busy with carbine or 
saber, and only the left is used in guiding the critter. 
Now if you want him to lope, give a couple of quick jerks 
upward, and if he is loping and you want a gallop, jab in 
the spurs.” 

I hadn’t put on the spurs, however. Nothing could in- 
duce me to do that, or I would have had the horse running 
away in short order. Loping was rapid enough for me. 

“If you want to bring him to a walk again,” continued 
the orderly, going on with his equestrian instructions, 
“just pull gently on the reins, and a good hard pull will 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


347 


bring him to a standstill. That’s the way to drive the 
critter with the bridle. But generally we do it with our 
knees.” 

“With your knees?” I asked. 

“Yes, we don’t bother much with the bridle, for often 
we have both hands busy in a scrimmage. When you 
want to start, give a ‘cluck.’ When you want the horse to 
lope, press the two knees against his withers two or three 
times, sharply. Do it again if you want him to gallop. 
If you want him to turn to the right, press the left knee 
only. If to the left, press the right knee. If you want to 
stop, press both knees hard.” 

I went through all these things and the noble animal 
obeyed like a child — a good deal better than some children, 
by the way. I never rode, before nor since, such a well- 
trained animal. Riding him was like sitting in a rocking- 
chair. I was delighted with the experience, for it was 
not long before I had perfect confidence restored, and felt 
as self-possessed as if I had been riding horseback all my 
life. 

But I was not altogether self-possessed for another rea- 
son. I was overcome with the idea of being the guest of 
a general officer. Only those who have been in the army 
can appreciate the vast gulf that exists between a private 
and a brigadier-general. 

And a brigadier-general of cavalry was more than a 
brigadier-general of infantry. In army etiquette and pre- 
cedence the cavalry general comes ahead of the infantry 
general. And then a brigade of cavalry is as big, so far as 
the ground it covers is concerned and its military impor- 
tance and pomp, as a whole corps of infantry. There was 
a peculiar dash and show about a high cavalry officer that 
no infantry commander ever attained. And yet, all the 
way, I couldn’t help repeating to myself : “Pete Stagg a 
brigadier-general ! Pete Stagg a general ?” And the last 
time I saw him he was working at his trade in the loco- 
motive works, if I remembered correctly. 

After a pleasant ride of twelve or fifteen miles, the camp 
of the cavalry brigade commanded by General Peter Stagg 
loomed into sight. 

General Stagg’s headquarters were quite pretentious. 


34 ^ 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Instead of a tent it was a good-sized barrack made of 
rough boards, the cracks between which were slatted so 
that it afforded perfect protection from the weather. The 
general’s brigade was in winter quarters, and it was the 
most comfortable and complete thing of the sort I ever 
saw in the front. 

The general came to the doorway of his house as I 
rode up, and greeted me cordially. Had I also been a 
brigadier-general there could not have been a warmer 
or more friendly welcome. I must confess that I felt a 
little ashamed. I was only a private, with all that im- 
plied, and my clothing was not very creditable for even 
a private. 

On the other hand, the general, who had just been su- 
perintending some maneuver, was in full uniform, as 
bright and spick as a militia officer, and there was a dash 
and vivacity about his manner that was altogether different 
from the plain mechanic I had remembered in Paterson. 
He was surrounded by a glittering staff of colonels and 
majors and captains, and the scene was so dazzling that 
I felt extremely abashed, to say the least. 

But the cordiality manifested from him of the star to 
the stripeless private was so hearty, and the consequent 
attitude of the officers around him so condescending, as I 
was introduced as “My old friend, Crowell,” by the gen- 
eral, that I soon felt at home, and for the time being for- 
got altogether the difference between our ranks. 

I do not altogether remember the details of that day’s 
visit. I do remember, however, that we had a good din- 
ner — wonderfully good considering the place and circum- 
stances — and I was filled with wonder as to where they 
had got all the provisions and delicacies that made up the 
menu. The wind-up of the dinner was a sort of punch 
that was very palatable, but which for a few moments 
made my head swim. That dinner impressed me strongly 
as to the difference between the lobscouse of the high pri- 
vates and the tempting lay-out of the general officers. All 
the while I felt my subordinate position keenly, although 
I tried my best to put my brightest and most nonchalant 
side forward. 

We lingered long at the table, which, by the way, was 



The general came to the doorway of his house as I rode up. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


349 


spread in a large barrack back of the general’s head- 
quarters, and in which all the officers participated. And 
many were the stories and experiences related, which 
gave an interesting insight to the exciting and dangerous 
life of a cavalryman. Of the stories told, I particularly 
remember one. It was by the general himself : 

“It was down on the retreat from the Peninsula,” said 
he, “when we were halting as if uncertain whether we 
should continue toward Washington, or go back toward 
Richmond, that we stopped on the way for a few days. I 
met an old friend of mine from another Michigan regi- 
ment, of which he was the colonel, and invited him to din- 
ner. Now, it happened that we were rather short of 
rations just then, and it was hard to get anything out of 
the usual line of provisions. The worst of it all was that 
we had run out of pork entirely. 

“But,” continued the general, “my cook had somehow 
managed to get hold of a couple of good cabbages. This 
was something so unusual that I thought a cabbage and 
pork dinner would be an acceptable novelty to my guest. 
When it was served there were only three to four thin 
slices of pork, which were spread around the sides of the 
dish of cabbage, as a sort of garnishment. It made it 
look very tempting. I wondered where Nick had got that 
pork, but said nothing. 

“There were half a dozen or so officers at the mess that 
day; when each one was asked if he would have a piece 
of pork, he saw what a small supply there was and politely 
answered no. So there was not a mouthful of the pork 
eaten. The party seemed so delighted with the cabbage 
that they were satisfied. The dinner was a success, and 
all expressed themselves as pleased with having had the 
opportunity of partaking of a dish which they had not 
seen for many a day. 

“I saw the cook remove the pork from the table with 
some satisfaction, for I thought that would come in good 
for breakfast in the morning. But when breakfast came, 
I looked in vain for the pork. I asked the cook what 
he had done with it. 

“ ‘Say, Nick,’ said I, ‘where is that pork that was left 
over from dinner ? I might as well have it for breakfast. 


350 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


We have not had meat for so long that I am hungry for 
some.’ 

“The darkey hesitated in making reply, and seemed 
strangely nonplussed. But I insisted on an answer. I 
began to suspect that the confounded nigger had eaten 
the pork himself. 

“ ‘Ex-ex-excuse me, massa, I done gone take dat po’k 
back again/ 

“ ‘Took the pork back again ?’ I asked, ‘what do you 
mean by that?’ 

“ ‘Well, you know, massa, dat dere was no po’k in de 
com’sarry, an’ I done gone an’ borrid et.’ 

“ ‘Borrowed it?’ 

“ ‘Yes, massa, I borrid dot po’k from Cap’n Wilkins, ob 
de Fust Iirnoy, an’ when you’ns were through I done 
tuk et back again. Dis nigger only done borrid et. I 
tole de cap’n so when I done got it.” 

“ ‘That was a risky thing to do, Nick,’ I told him. 
‘Now, suppose we had eaten that pork, where would you 
have been ? You couldn’t have taken it back then ?’ 

“ ‘Yous cawn’t fool dis nigger, gen’ral,’ replied the con- 
founded darkey. ‘I done know’d better. I know’d that 
when gen’lmens dine, an’ dar’s only a little bit ob enny- 
thin’, dey nebber teches et. I done know’d et. I done 
know’d it wouldn’t be teched. I know’d I cud took dat 
po’k all back ag’in, widout a brack in de skin.’ 

“And so it was. The shrewd darkey had waited on 
tables long enough to know that when there is very little 
of anything on a dish at dinner none of the guests is likely 
to touch it, out of politeness. But it struck me that it 
was a mighty big risk to run, under the circumstances.” 

After dinner we sat and smoked and talked about Pater- 
son and things at home till the time for the afternoon dress 
parade. Here I was given a horse and accompanied the 
general as an orderly, and as there were two or three 
other privates mounted in that capacity, I did not feel 
much abashed. But they had given me another horse, 
which was not as good a one as the general’s, and when 
the staff galloped along the line with me following them, I 
had a difficult job to hang fast to the saddle, 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


35i 


Escorted by the orderly who had come for me in the 
morning, I rode back to the camp of the Thirteenth late in 
the afternoon, after having had a most enjoyable day, 
and passed through an experience not often allotted to a 
private soldier. The distinction of having been invited 
to dinner with a general also set me up a peg or so in 
the opinion of my companions. No civilian can fully 
appreciate the influence of little things like this. 

En passant, speaking of General Stagg, reminds me that 
his brother John, who originally enlisted in the Eleventh 
New Jersey Infantry, was later in the war promoted to 
a lieutenancy in the First Michigan Cavalry and served as 
an aid-de-camp on General Stagg’s staff. As before said, 
John is now a sort of general himself, being in command 
of the Paterson Fire Department. 

From that time on till the end of the war, I always re- 
membered Peter Stagg as the dashing cavalry general sur- 
rounded by a brilliant array of staff officers. The picture 
was, as it were, photographed on my memory. 

Great was the shock, therefore, when I next visited him. 
I had remained in the service for a year or so after the 
war was ended on special service in the Freedmen’s Bu- 
reau. But the main portion of the army had returned to 
their homes and settled down to the routine of citizens’ 
lives. 

Great was my surprise, I say, when I saw Peter Stagg. 
He had opened a little grocery store on Main Street, and 
there I called. 

“Is the general in?” I asked. 

“The what?” inquired the half-grown lad I had ad- 
dressed. 

“The general,” I repeated. “General Stagg?” 

“Oh, it’s Pete you mean. Yes, he’s in the back part of 
the store, waiting on a customer.” 

And there I found General Stagg, wearing a long gro- 
cer’s apron, and measuring out a quart of kerosene for 
a woman! 

The transformation from the picture in mind to the 
reality before me, nearly knocked me over. But it was 
the same welcome, the same hearty manner. Peter Stagg 


352 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


was the same whether in a general’s uniform or in a gro- 
cer’s apron. 

“Rank is but the guinea’s stamp, 

A man’s a man for a’ that,” 

said Robby Burns; but still, I fain would repeat, the 
change was startling. 

And when I went down the street, whom did I meet but 
Captain Scott, my old company commander, standing on 
the corner of Broadway, yelling at the top of his voice, 
peddling whips ! 

As for myself, I went back to the Guardian office to set 
type ! 

But there were tnany exciting scenes to pass through 
between the time I took that dinner with General Stagg 
and the time I next had a composing stick in my hand. 
The most terrible scenes and experiences were yet to come. 
And I am getting close upon them ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


353 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

AGAIN WE START. 

It was the purpose of the author in writing this story 
to present some idea of the daily life and experience of a 
private soldier. It was to give an inside history of real 
army life in war times, rather than follow the stilted route 
of maneuvers, movements, engagements and statistics. 
As said earlier in the story, the experiences and services 
of the Thirteenth New Jersey merely formed the thread on 
which the incidents were strung. 

And yet the truth as to dates and names has been ad- 
hered to, so that to the extent to which this is carried, it 
is practically a history of the regiment to which the 
writer belonged. The further history of the detailed inci- 
dents of the campaign and individual experiences, how- 
ever, would be largely repetitive of what has already been 
described, and henceforth only new experiences will be 
detailed, those similar to what have already been described 
being cursorily referred to. 

There still remain, however, some novel incidents and 
adventures to be described, and some scenes more terrible 
than anything yet presented to the reader, and it will con- 
sequently be to the advantage and interest of the latter to 
patiently pursue the story to the end. 

I interpolate these remarks here, because it is an appro- 
priate place. The Thirteenth Regiment at this particular 
time was going through the most inactive period of its en- 
tire experience. Never before and never afterward did it 
have such a long rest as at Stafford Court House. 

Yet we were not entirely idle, for the ordinary duties of 
a soldier do not leave much time, whether it be in camp or 
on the march. The term “idleness” is only comparative, 
when mentioned in connection with a soldier. 

I remember one incident of a personal nature. I heard 


354 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


that my Uncle David, a lieutenant in the Thirty-fifth New 
Jersey, was at Aquia creek, and obtained a pass to go and 
see him. It involved a walk of five or six miles through 
the thickest and deepest mud. When I reached his camp 
my trousers were besmeared to the knees and my shoes 
were filled with the red pigment. My uncle went to the 
sutler’s and presented me with a nine-dollar pair of boots, 
coming to the knees. They were admirable for the pur- 
pose of keeping out the mud, and I was heartily pleased 
with the present. 

My uncle probably never knew what became of those 
boots. On the next march they hurt my feet so that I 
temporarily traded them with Cornelius Mersereau, one of 
my companions, for a pair of English shoes that had been 
captured from a blockade runner, bound for the Confed- 
eracy. There is no use talking, nothing is as good as 
low, flat broad-soled shoes for marching. 

But I only intended the exchange to be temporary, till 
after we had concluded the march. Alas, Mersereau was 
killed in the next battle, and his feet swelled so that I 
could not pull off the boots, and they were buried with him 
at Chancellorsville. Of that, later. Mersereau’s name is 
carved on the base of the soldiers’ monument at the falls 
in Paterson. The boots are absorbed by the soil of Vir- 
ginia, somewhere. 

It was just about this time that there were numerous 
changes among the officers in consequence of the resigna- 
tions and consequent promotions. Lieutenant-Colonel 
Swords, who, despite his name, was a peaceably disposed 
man, resigned. Captain John Grimes was promoted from 
captain to major. But the greatest sensation was caused 
by the promotion of Private Franklin Murphy, of Com- 
pany D, to the position of second lieutenant. As said 
before somewhere the promotion of a private over the 
heads of the sergeants and others in the direct line of pro- 
motion, always created a sensation and not a little indigna- 
tion over what was esteemed a sense of injustice. As a 
general rule, it indicated a “pull” somewhere that was not 
popular among those concerned. 

There was consequently not a little kicking at first when 
Murphy made his first appearance on parade ground in a 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


355 


brand new uniform of a commissioned officer. But he 
proved such a kind-hearted officer, and seemed disposed to 
put on so few airs, that this feeling soon wore off, and 
Frank Murphy became one of the most popular officers of 
the regiment. 

I refer to him particularly, because this Franklin Mur- 
phy afterward became one of the most prominent men in 
the State of New Jersey. He was elected governor in 
1902 and served for three years with great distinction. 

Along about the middle of April (this was in 1863, re- 
member), we received word that the army was about to 
be honored with another visit from President Lincoln. 
The other parts of the Army of the Potomac had been 
reviewed, and this demonstration included the Twelfth 
Corps, under command of General Slocum, only. The 
review was a grand success and a magnificent sight. 

The corps included about twenty thousand men, com- 
prising all branches of the service. It marched to a large 
field about four miles from camp, and there went through 
all the evolutions incident to such an occasion. 

The army was never in better condition than at the pres- 
ent time. The men had had a good rest, for some time the 
rations had been plenty and good, and all the regiments 
had been perfected in their drill. In fact, the army was 
recuperated, fresh, and in magnificent shape for the begin- 
ning of the campaign which we all anticipated as soon as 
the spring fairly opened. The long rest had put everybody 
in good condition bodily, and every man’s spirits were pro- 
portionately buoyant. 

While we all knew that there was arduous marching 
and hard fighting in store for us, yet no one felt down- 
cast or discouraged. In fact, I might almost say that 
every man was eager for the fray. The desire to get into 
something active and less monotonous was universal. 

Even our old, and for some time forgotten, friend John 
Ick, prated not of “slaughter houses” and manifested such 
a desire to get started at something that he actually excited 
the admiration of Reddy Mahar. Without exception, I 
think I am safe in saying, the entire army was desirous 
of being “on the move.” 

It was not my luck at this last review in which President 


356 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Lincoln participated to get anywhere near him. I was in 
the ranks while he rode down and around the line, and 
afterward marched past him in the review, but only got a 
somewhat distant glimpse of one I had almost come to 
regard as a personal friend. 

I imagined, from what I saw of him^that he looked 
more gaunt and careworn than ever. It may have been 
imagination, but every succeeding time that I saw Presi- 
dent Lincoln the more did he appear to me to be aging. 
And now that we can more fully appreciate what he had to 
go through* how could it have been otherwise ? 

Just about this time, the surgeon of the Thirteenth, 
Dr. J. J. H. Love, was promoted to the position of bri- 
gade surgeon-in-chief. This took him away from our 
immediate vicinity, greatly to our regret, for every soldier 
revered Dr. Love. He was, until his recent death, a 
highly respected citizen of Montclair, and held in great es- 
teem far beyond the limits of that picturesque New Jersey 
town. 

But at last the expected order to move was received. 

We were supplied with sixty rounds of ammunition per 
man. 

That meant business ! 

The usual quantity carried by the soldier was about 
forty rounds. Sixty was never given out except on the eve 
of an expected battle of more than ordinary dimensions 
and importance. We were also directed to dispose of every 
superfluous article, and place ourselves in marching order 
in the fullest meaning of the word. We were “in it” now 
for fair. 

On the 14th of April came the order, “Fall in, Thir- 
teenth,” and, after the usual preliminary preparations, 
bustle and excitement, we started off — many never to 
return. 

Little did we know then — and perhaps it is better that 
we did not — that in a short time the Thirteenth Regiment 
would be back in that very camp, with decimated numbers, 
torn and shattered, after having passed through one of the 
bloodiest conflicts, one of the most disastrous repulses of 
the whole war — the engagement that has gone into history 
as “The Battle of Chancellorsville !” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


357 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

“men THAT ain't AFRAID OF HEEL.” 

On to Chancellorsville ! 

Now for a battle that was doubtless one of the bloodiest 
and most disastrous of the war. And yet the Union army 
never started into a campaign more confident of success. 
Little did anybody apprehend that it was to be the most 
terrible repulse ever sustained by the armies of the North ! 

The army was in magnificent shape. The discipline 
was perfect. General Hooker had won the confidence and 
esteem of every man under his command, from the highest 
to the lowest. The spirit of his dash and vigor had per- 
meated rank and file, line and stafif, and the soldiers be- 
lieved themselves part of an army that was invincible, 
under a commander who was unconquerable. 

Colonel T. H. Ruger, the fighting commander of the 
Third Wisconsin, had been promoted to brigadier general, 
and was in consequence our immediate commanding gen- 
eral. We had as much faith in him as a brigade com- 
mander as the army had in Hooker as the grand com- 
mander. The men had had a good rest, they were in fine 
condition physically and full of fight and spirit. 

The sentiment was universal that the rebellion was 
about to be quenched, and that the coming battle would be 
the settler. 

That it was going to be a terrible conflict was evident to 
everybody from the extensive and complete character of 
the preparations. It is unnecessary to go into all of the 
details in this respect. But it is significant to remark that 
soldiers were served with one hundred pounds of ammu- 
nition and eight days' rations just before starting on that 
fateful campaign, on April 27, 1863. 

“The plan of the campaign was that the Fifth, Eleventh 
and Twelfth (our) corps, should rapidly move up the 


35 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Rappahannock and get into position in the extreme rear of 
the enemy at Fredericksburg, rendezvousing at Chancel- 
lorsville (of course, we privates knew nothing about these 
plans at the time ; I am here quoting from “Toombs’ Rem- 
iniscences,” § win ton and other authorities). General 
Couch, with two divisions of the Second Corps, was to 
follow as far as United States Ford, and cross there as 
soon as the success of the first movement was apparent by 
the driving away of the enemy guarding that point. Rey- 
nolds, Sickles and Sedgwick, with the First, Third and 
Sixth Corps were to cross the Rappahannock below Fred- 
ericksburg and make a vigorous demonstration at that 
point.” 

Such, the authorities say, was the programme for the 
campaign, and it was really well planned, for it involved 
a simultaneous attack on the enemy from three sides, and 
a series of those flank movements which in battle are sup- 
posed to be invincible. 

Nothing unusual from an ordinary march occurred for 
two days. There were no signs of the enemy and every- 
thing was as quiet and peaceful as a militia parade on the 
Fourth of July. 

The only thing that specially attracted my attention was 
the ascension of a military balloon. It was a good-sized 
balloon inflated with gas from a generator carried on 
wheels for the purpose. It ascended several hundred feet 
and from it we could see the two occupants scanning the 
enemy’s country through their field glasses. The balloon 
was attached to the ground with a long rope, on a wind- 
lass, and at a given signal the men below would wind up 
the windlass and haul the aeronauts down. I distinctly re- 
member wondering what would happen if some rebel sent 
a bullet hole through the balloon while it was in the air. 

On the afternoon of the same day I saw the first mili- 
tary telegraph. It was just being introduced, and the 
men were drilling as we marched along, in preparation for 
its use in the coming battle. The men ran along like 
skirmishers, carrying poles about ten feet long, sharp- 
ened at one end, while the other had a sort of double fork, 
like the hook on the end of a cistern pole. Another lot of 
men would come along with wire on reels on a wagon, 



I distinctly remember wondering what would happen if some rebel sent a 
bullet hole through the balloon while it was in the air. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


359 


and this was strung on the poles about as fast as the 
horses could run. Three or four miles of telegraph line 
could be put up in an hour in this way, and removed in 
less time. 

At each end of the line was an operator. The idea was 
a good one, but the movements of an army in battle are too 
rapid to use the telegraph much. I remember seeing the 
lines in the first part of the battle of Chancellorsville, but 
before long they were lying useless, scattered along the 
ground. 

On the third day of our uneventful march, I think it 
was, we crossed the Rappahannock River on pontoon 
bridges, and were once more in what might be called the 
enemy’s country. On the afternoon of the same day we 
approached the Rapidan River, and were about to cross it 
at Germania Ford when we were suddenly interrupted 
and startled by a volley of musketry from the boys in the 
Third Wisconsin and Second Massachusetts, immediately 
in front of us. 

We had suddenly pounced down upon a lot of rebels 
busily engaged in building a bridge over the river, and we 
captured nearly the entire party. They were a jolly lot 
of Johnnies, and wanted to know why we had not waited 
till they finished the bridge, so that we could cross the 
river easier ! 

There was one thing at this point that filled me with 
horror. As we approached the bank at the edge of the 
narrow river, we saw on the other side a rebel who had 
escaped capture and who was running over the open field. 
A big Wisconsin man alongside me lifted his rifle and 
aimed at the fleeing rebel. 

“Don’t shoot him,” I cried. “Tell him to surrender !” 

“To with him,” replied the bloodthirsty Wiscon- 

sinian. “Dead rebs tell no tales !” 

“But ” I started to say something more, but my 

voice was drowned by the report of the rifle, and the flee- 
ing rebel dropped dead. 

I did not relish that sort of warfare a bit. It looked to 
me like murder, this shooting down in cold blood one poor 
man. But when I ventured to express my sentiments to 
the slayer, he gruffly turned upon me and said : 


360 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“Say, young feller, when you know the devilishness of 
those varmints as well as I do, you won’t be so chicken- 

hearted. I never let pass a chance to kill every 

one of them I can. So just hold your wind, young fel- 
ler.” 

I said nothing more, but I had my opinions about it just 
the same. It is one thing to stand in a line and shoot at 
a body of troops collectively shooting at you. It is quite 
another thing to shoot down a single human being in cold 
blood without giving him a chance for his life. 

The bridge, as before stated, was not completed. The 
pontoon trains were some distance behind. It was neces- 
sary to cross at once, and we were ordered to do so. 
There was no alternative except to ford the stream. 

The water was at least four feet deep. The current 
was very strong. We had to put our bayonets on our 
guns and hang our knapsacks, haversacks and cartridge 
boxes upon them, so as to carry them high over our 
shoulders to keep them from getting wet. Cavalry pick- 
ets were stationed a little further down the stream to catch 
those who were carried from their feet by the swift cur- 
rent, which, by the way, were not few. 

We were wet to the skin and it was growing quite cold, 
as night was approaching. Fires were lighted to dry our 
clothing, and we were just gathering around to make our- 
selves comfortable, when Major Grimes dashed suddenly 
into our midst and yelled out : 

“I want seven men that ain’t afraid of hell !” 

I don’t know what impulse struck me. I, one of the 
biggest cowards in the army at that moment, volunteered 
as one of the seven men who had no fears for the future 
abode of the wicked. 

It was a sudden impulse of some sort for which I could 
never account. I did not know, of course, what it meant. 
I did know that it meant some dangerous duty to perform. 
My comrades naturally looked surprised when I volun- 
teered for this unknown horror. 

I, of course, repented at once, and felt like kicking 
myself for being so fresh. I wondered why I had an- 
swered as I did. But I wouldn’t back out now. I would 
have been a laughing-stock forever afterward. Indeed, 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


36 1 


after going that far, I would have stuck to it if I had pos- 
itively known that I was to be killed in half an hour. But, 
although I tried to look brave on the outside, everything 
inside of me was quaking with terror, and the cold chills 
were chasing each other down my back. 

With my fellow volunteers I was marched to brigade 
headquarters, the party was duly formed, and, under the 
command of a captain, we started out for the unknown 
place that Major Grimes had described so calorically. 


3 62 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

JO-SI-ER AND HIS OLD 'OMAN. 

If there was reliable proof that the real old-fashioned, 
orthodox, red-hot, fire-and-brimstone hell were of no 
longer duration than the Tophet described by the excited 
Major Grimes, I fear that there would be a good deal more 
wickedness in this world. 

We were marched up the hill, and, like the famous 
forty thousand men of old, we were marched down again, 
and back into the camp of the Thirteenth Regiment. 
We were received with all sorts of jeers as to how we liked 
it, whether it was hot, and if we had returned for our linen 
dusters and fans! We assured our comrades that his 
Satanic Majesty was enjoying good health and was as 
active as ever, but he wanted more company, and we had 
come back for the rest of them. 

We were justified in saying this, for we learned that it 
had been decided to send the entire Thirteenth Regiment 
out on picket that night, instead of only a smaller detach- 
ment. The enemy had been discovered, it was said, just in 
front and it was thought best to send out a very strong 
picket line. So the other fellows had to go through the 
same service as we few who had been so very fresh in 
volunteering. 

I shall never forget that night. Remember, we were 
drenched to the skin from fording the Rapidan River, and 
the night was cold, as it is usually during the latter part of 
April, even in Virginia. There really isn’t very much 
difference between the climate of Virginia and New Jersey, 
except perhaps in midsummer and midwinter. The spring 
and fall are about the same in both States. 

We had advanced into the enemy’s country, and the 
scouts had reported the rebels immediately in front of 
us. So quietly had the movement of this wing of the 
Union army been that the enemy evidently had no idea 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 363 

that we were so close upon them, and there was a likeli- 
hood of a collision at any time. 

As said before, we were sent on picket on the very out- 
posts. There was nothing between us and the rebels, and 
there wasn’t supposed to be much space between us at 
that. No one was permitted to speak above a whisper, for 
fear of its attracting attention. When I was placed on my 
post, which was in a thick woods, under a big tree, where 
it was as dark as Egypt, the officer of the guard instructed 
me in a low whisper, and I was advised to be unusually 
quiet. I was not even to march up and down the usual 
proverbial “beat.” The noise of the footsteps might 
attract attention. Under no circumstances was a match 
to be struck for lighting a pipe or any other purpose. 

Now, this made it worse than ever. Being wet through 
it might have afforded considerable comfort to be able to 
keep moving to and fro. But to stand still, drenched as 
we were, made us shiver with the cold, and pretty soon 
my teeth were chattering a tattoo that made more noise 
than my footsteps would have made had I been patroling 
a beat. 

But orders were orders and there was nothing to do but 
to do nothing — except shiver. I never suffered worse. 
Inside of half an hour I was almost paralyzed. 

The night was very still. The slightest noise seemed to 
penetrate a long distance. Way out in front somewhere 
there was a subdued hum, as from distant voices, and 
they were supposed to be from the camps of the rebels. 
Every nerve seemed to be strung to the utmost tension, 
and one’s ears* under such circumstances, were phono- 
graphic with their supernatural keenness. 

The inactivity of the position finally made me drowsy, 
and I feared it was the drowsiness that preceded the act 
of freezing to death. I shook myself to arouse my senses, 
and was wondering if I could stand it for another hour or 
so, when suddenly my acute ears caught the sound of 
breaking twigs, instantly I was all attention. I at once 
brought my rifle into position and raised the hammer. 

Nearer and nearer came the sound of the crackling 
twigs, till it seemed to be within ten feet of me, when, in 
a subdued voice^ I said : 


3 6 4 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“Halt! Who comes there ?” 

“Fo’ de Lo’d’s sake! What’s dat?” 

That was the answer that came to my military saluta- 
tion. It was so unexpected, so different from what I 
expected, and withal so comical, that I came near laughing 
aloud. But I was suspicious. It was the voice of a 
negro, but it might be the assumed tone of a rebel scout. 
So I again said: 

“Who comes there, I say ? Answer, or I will shoot !” 

“Fo’ de Lo’d’s sake, massa, don’t shoot dis poor nig- 
ger. I’se doin’ nothing. I done gone done nothin’. Doan’ 
shoot! Oh, Lo’d! Oh, Lo’d!” 

“Come here and let me see what you look like,” I said. 

There was a rush that frightened me, and before I could 
fully realize it, there kneeled at my feet the worst scared 
darky ever seen. My eyes had become somewhat accus- 
tomed to the darkness, and I could see him kneeling at my 
feet with his hands clasped in the attitude of supplication. 

“Oh, doan’ kill dis poor nigger!” he cried. “Doan’ 
shoot me. I doan’ know’d dere was any so’gers about 
here. I tho’t dey was all on the udder side of de crick. 
Say, boss,” he added, interrupting himself, as he drew a 
little nearer and straightened himself up, “be you-uns a 
Yank?” 

“Yes,” I replied, “I am a Northern soldier. I am not a 
rebel. And there’s thousands more right behind me.” 

“Thank de Lo’d !” he cried devoutly. “Praise de Lamb ! 
Salvation am come at last ! Glory halleluyer !” 

I didn’t know what the confounded darky meant. I 
thought I had struck an escaped lunatic. 

“Praise de Lamb !” continued the excited negro. “Am 
it true we niggers is free ? Be you-uns one of Massa Lin- 
coln’s men?” 

I assured him that I had the honor of being one of the 
humble members of the army fighting for the government 
presided over by Lincoln — although of course in not ex- 
actly those words. Then I asked the poor darky what he 
meant by all this rigmarole. 

He told me that the colored people were waiting for 
the arrival of the Northern army that was to set them free 
and take them “Up North,” where they were to spend the 



“ to’ de Lo’d’s sake, massa, don’t 


shoot dis poor nigger.” 


Page 364 
















THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


365 


rest of their lives in the midst of plenteous milk and honey 

and whiskey. He announced his willingness to accom- 
pany me at once. 

“I’se ready to go ’long straight away now,” said he, 
gladly. “Only wait a min’it till I gits de old ’oman and 
de pickaninnies. We-uns ’ll have our bundl’ ready in a 
min’it. Praise de Lamb! We’se free at last! Glory 
halleluyer !” 

The excited darky fairly yelled this out, and I feared 
that it would attract the attention of the rebels supposed 
to be a short distance in front. So I told him to stop his 
noise. The corporal of the guard did hear it and came 
running up to see what was the matter. He thought, of 
course, that it came from one of the men on picket. 

The matter was explained to the corporal, who told the 
darky it would be his duty to take him back to headquar- 
ters. This was done in spite of the protests of the darky, 
who wanted to go back after “the old ’oman and de pick- 
aninnies.” 

He had not been gone long before another sound in the 
darkness ahead of me nearly frightened the wits out of 
me. It was a female voice, and a lusty one at that : 

“Jo-si-er !” 

Now, the front syllable of this appellation fitted me 
exactly, but I concluded to remain quiet and see what it 
all meant. I recognized the voice as that of a negro 
woman, but the presence of a woman out there in the 
woods at night was something strange. Presently the call 
was repeated. 

“Jo-si-er! Jo-si-er! Whar you is, Jo-si-er?” 

The voice didn’t seem to be twenty-five feet distant, and 
I thought I would venture forward and investigate. The 
crackling of the twigs was heard by the old woman, and 
she said : 

“Oh, dar you is, Jo-si-er. What for you go out jist 
as de hoecake am done bake? Come, it am ready, you 
good-for-nothin’, lazy nigger. Seems to your oF mammy 
you’se allers hungry.” 

To my astonishment I found myself at the threshold 
of a typical negro’s log cabin. On the hearth blazed a 
roaring fire that was temptingly warm. From a crane 


366 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of the old-fashioned sort hung a big broad spider, upon 
which was a thick hoecake, done to a turn, while on a little 
table at the side of the room stood a steaming pot of coffee. 
Goodness, didn’t it look tempting ! 

I had no idea that there was a human habitation within 
miles, and I was thunderstruck to come across the cabin 
occupied by this negro family. I stood at the open door- 
way contemplating the scene with curiosity and interest. 

The fat old negro woman was standing with her back 
to me and did not see me. She was busily engaged in the 
intricate operation of getting the flapjack off the griddle 
upon a huge platter of wood, ready to remove to the table. 

“Here, you hungry nigger,” she said, “here’s yo’ hoe- 
cake. De nex’ time you gits yure old mammy to bake a 
cake for yo’ in de middl’ of de night, yo’ll ” 

Here she turned and saw me. Instead of “Jo-si-er” 
she unexpectedly contemplated the apparition of a very 
wet, very tired and very dirty-looking soldier, armed with 
a bayoneted rifle, standing there like a wandering ghost. 

She gave one yell, and tottered backward, upsetting the 
table, spilling the steaming coffee on the floor, and drop- 
ping the platter with the hoecake back into the fire. 



“Oh, Massa Debb’l, doan’ take dis poor nigger ! Doan’ take me war 
de fire burn and is not done squelched ! ” 


Paere 367 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3 6 7 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

A MASKED BATTERY. 

The first thing I did was to make a grab for that hoe- 
cake before it got burned up in the fire. While I was 
doing this, I was startled by a series of unearthly yells 
from the opposite side of the cabin. 

Looking over toward that direction I saw three young 
negro babies, ranging in age from two to five years. They 
had been asleep on the floor in the corner, and had hastily 
arisen in terror when aroused by the noise of the old 
woman’s yelling. The “kids” were as naked as the day 
they were born. The colored people in those parts never 
put on such frills as dressing their children in nightgowns 
when they put them to bed. 

My attention was then directed to the old woman her- 
self. She had got upon her knees, and with her hands 
clasped devoutly was praying with a vigor that would have 
done justice to a Methodist deacon in the amen corner of 
a church. 

“Oh, Lo’d! Oh, Lo’d!” she exclaimed. “Hab mercy 
on dis ere mis’ble sinner. Oh, Massa Debb’l, doan’ take 
dis poor nigger ! Doan’ take me war de fire burn and is 
not done squelched! Oh, Lo’d! sabe me from de debb’l 
afore he take me down below! Massa Debb’l, please, 
kind Massa Debb’l, good Debb’l, doan’ tote dis ere poor 
nigger off to der ” 

“What in thunder are you getting off?” I interrupted. 
“ What’s the matter with you, anyhow ? I am not the 
devil. I am not going to ‘tote’ you off to the fire and 
brimstone. What I want is some of that flapjack. And 
put the coffee on again. The best you can do if you don’t 
want to be carried off is to get that supper ready again. 
Those things make me hungry. The devil don’t eat. I 


3 68 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


will soon show you that I am no devil if I once get my 
teeth on the edge of that flapjack. ,, 

I remember to this day how the whites of the old 
woman’s startled eyeballs bulged out as she stood there 
looking at me, not even yet satisfied whether I was real 
flesh and blood or his Satanic Majesty. 

And no wonder. It was the first time she had ever seen 
a Union soldier in full uniform. The rebel uniforms, 
originally gray, had become dirt color, and if you took a 
lot of prisoners from the Passaic county jail and armed 
them with old guns, and hung a dirty blanket around 
their necks, it would make a good representation of a Con- 
federate private. 

Untidy and soiled as my uniform was, it looked im- 
posing to the old woman, with the brass belt plates, glitter- 
ing bayonet and other accouterments, and altogether it 
looked unlike anything she had seen on the earth or in 
the waters under the earth. It was only natural that she 
took me for a devil. But I can’t say that I felt much 
complimented ! 

Shivering and shaking, the old woman hastened to com- 
ply with my orders. Presently she managed to muster up 
courage to ask me if I was one of “Massa Lincum’s so- 
gers.” I assured her that I was, and then followed an- 
other scene of thankfulness over freedom similar to that 
of the man I had encountered on the picket post. 

Then she thought of the man herself. 

“Whar’s dat Jo-si-er?” she asked. “Did you see a 
lazy, good-for-nothin’ nigger out yar? He done gone so 
long dat I’se afeared he am gobbled up.” 

“Oh, he’s all right,” I answered. “He is out there talk- 
ing with some of the other soldiers.” I did not want to 
alarm her by telling her that he had been captured and 
taken back to headquarters. 

Just then I heard some sort of a commotion outside. I 
had forgotten all about my duties as a soldier on picket. 
The sight of that toothsome hoecake and steaming coffee 
had driven everything else from my mind. The noise 
outside, however, brought me to my senses again and I 
started to go out. 

“Here, what’s going on here?” asked the sergeant of 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3 6 9 


the guard, whom I met at the door. "What are you doing 
off your post? Don’t you know this is disobedience of 
orders?” 

"I suppose it is, sergeant,” I answered ; "but just look 
at that flapjack there on the table.” 

"Halt, second relief,” said the sergeant, turning to the 
men outside. He was coming around with the second 
relief. It was n o’clock. 

Human nature is human nature. The sight of that hot 
supper there on that cold and cheerless night had the 
same effect on the sergeant and the half-dozen men with 
him that it did on me, and they one and all leaned their 
guns against the door of the cabin and came in. 

The old woman had the coffee ready again by this time, 
and it is needless to say that we made quick work of that 
hoecake. Some pork gravy was served as butter and I 
don’t think that I ever tasted a meal that I relished more 
than I did that lonely and singular repast there in the 
wilderness. 

We learned some of the facts from the old woman, too. 
The rebels had been there during the afternoon, but had 
marched off toward Chancellorsville. They did not know 
that there were any Union troops anywhere in the vicinity. 
The old woman had heard them say that they were going 
away for good, and that she would not see them again. 

This settled us that there were no rebels in that imme- 
diate vicinity at least, and we felt that there was not so 
much need of being quiet and careful to watch for attack. 
Of course, it was a gross violation of duty for any of us 
to be there in that hut, even for a few moments, but I 
don’t think there was a soldier in the army who would not 
have taken advantage of the occasion. 

I was relieved from my post by the second relief, and 
went back to the picket headquarters for a little sleep, as I 
did not have to go on duty again till 3 o’clock in the morn- 
ing. I slept soundly, despite the racket going on around 
me. 

This racket was caused by the arrival of the remaining 
portion of the army. The Thirteenth Regiment, being 
needed for picket duty, was the one that forded the 
Rapidan. The others crossed on pontoon bridges that had 


37 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


been placed in position, and they came over between mid- 
night and morning and went into camp around us. But 
despite all the noise incident to this, we men who had been 
on picket slept the sleep only known to tired soldiers. 

And well was it that we could sleep. Had we known 
what was in store for us on the two or three days follow- 
ing, none of us would have felt much like sleeping. 

I was on picket again from 3 to 5 o’clock, and a more 
lonesome two hours I never experienced. The old negro 
woman’s cabin was silent, showing that she and the pick- 
aninnies had gone to bed, regardless of the absence of 
“Jo-si-er,” an d, w ith the exception of the occasional hoot 
of an owl, the woods were as quiet and dismal as a cem- 
etery. 

I leaned against a tree, and I believe that I fell asleep 
standing there. This was often the case. It did not take 
much for a soldier on picket to fall asleep on the relief just 
before daylight. But on such occasions the picket would 
be aroused by the slightest noise. The noise that aroused 
me was the approach of the second relief again at 5 o’clock. 
If I was asleep I was wide awake enough when the relief 
took my place, and I gladly returned to camp, completely 
tired out. But there was no more sleep that night. Al- 
ready the army was making preparation for a move. 

It was on Thursday morning, April 30, 1863. It was 
the day previous to the commencement of the great battle 
of Chancellorsville. We knew that we were engaged in 
some important movement, of course, but did not know 
when the fighting would begin, or where. All the signs, 
however, with which we had become so familiar, indicated 
that we were close upon a serious conflict with the enemy. 

It was a beautiful sunny forenoon. The weather was 
simply delightful. We were marching along comfortably, 
leisurely and contentedly. It seemed like a spring excur- 
sion party, so peaceful was everything. There was not a 
sign of anything like an enemy, and the only sound that 
greeted our ears, besides the joking and laughter of the 
soldiers, was the chirping of the birds in the trees which 
we passed. Now and then a chipmunk would dash across 
the road, and occasionally the cotton tail of a fleeing rabbit 
would be seen scurrying through the brush. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


37i 


All was peace. Nothing could seem further than any- 
thing like war, when — 

“Boom !” 

Simultaneously came the familiar “Ker-chew, ker-chew, 
ker-chew” of a flying shell. 

Then a great crash ! Then yells of agony and moans 
of pain, for the shell had fallen and burst in our ranks, 
right in front of us. 

Involuntarily we all turned our eyes toward the place 
from which the report came, which was plainly indicated 
by the still hovering cloud of smoke. A moment later we 
saw a small battery of artillery hurrying away from the 
spot on a gallop. It was hidden behind a clump of bushes 
on the hill. It was what was called a “masked battery.” 
It could not be seen from the road, and no one knew that 
it was there. 

A company of cavalry made a dash after the fleeing 
artillery of the enemy. I don’t know if they were cap- 
tured or not. 

Our column halted its march, and everybody made a 
rush to the place where the soldiers were crowding around 
the wounded men. I rushed forward with the rest. 


372 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXX. 

BEGINS TO TOOK LIKE BUSINESS. 

I rushed forward with others to see what damage had 
been done by the shell that had exploded in our ranks. 

And I was immediately sorry that I had done so. I re- 
ceived a shock that made me feel sick all over. 

Two men had been literally torn to pieces. Their re- 
mains were strewn over the roadway from one side to the 
other. One man’s heart was still throbbing. Pieces of 
skull and human brains lay here and there ! 

One poor fellow had lost a leg, and his writhing was 
terrifying. Others were less seriously wounded. Alto- 
gether there were two men killed, one fatally and six 
others severely wounded by the explosion of that single 
shell. I turned from the scene sick at heart and sick at 
stomach. 

Nearly every man’s face was pallid. It was the sud- 
denness, the unexpectedness of it. Had we been in the 
midst of a battle, when such things are expected and 
looked for, it would not have been so startling. But every- 
thing had been so quiet and peaceful, and everybody’s 
thoughts were so far away from anything like carnage and 
death, that it was just like such a tragedy would be in the 
quiet and peaceful streets at home. 

John Ick came in with his customary remark about 
“slaughter houses,” but no one disputed him. It looked 
more like a slaughter house than anything else. And it 
seemed more like cold-blooded murder than warfare. But 
then what is warfare but murder, at the best ? 

For some time after we resumed our march there was 
an unnatural quiet in the ranks. The incident through 
which we had just passed seemed to have an effect on 
every one. It perhaps impressed each one with the fact 
that we were likely to soon meet the same fate as the poor 
wretches we had seen writhing there in the dusty road. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


373 


But the spirits of soldiers do not remain depressed. 
Pretty soon we came to a small farmhouse along the road, 
and in the barnyard behind the dwelling we caught sight 
of an old sow with a lot of sucking pigs. 

There was no order to “break ranks,” but immediately 
there was a grand rush for those porkers. The squealing 
captives were carried back into the line despite the indig- 
nant protests of the woman in a very shabby dress who 
came out and futilely ordered the return of “them ’ere 
shoats.” 

As we marched along we passed quite a number of 
farmhouses and each one was denuded of everything in the 
shape of live stock. Soon there was a remarkable chorus 
of squealing pigs, squawking chickens and quacking ducks 
all along the line. The boys were assured of a change in 
their menu for once, that was sure. 

We marched on and on and on. Detouring the woods 
and fields on each side of us was a lot of cavalry, on the 
lookout that we might not be again surprised by a shot 
from a masked battery. But nothing of the sort occurred 
during the remainder of the day, and we did not stop till 
night, when we went into camp in line of battle in a fine 
large open field between two clumps of woods, in the im- 
mediate vicinity of Chancellorsville. 

That night we had a banquet with the fresh meat and 
poultry we had captured during the day. We had no 
duty to perform that night, except to be called out in line 
to hear the reading of some orders. 

It was an order from General Hooker complimenting 
the Fifth, Eleventh and Twelfth corps for the commenda- 
bly successful manner in which they had achieved the 
movement, whatever it was. We did not know what it 
was. It did not seem anything more than an ordinary 
day’s march, with the exception of the interruption from 
that deadly shell from the masked battery. 

But General Hooker said it was, and that settled it. 
There was a good deal of braggadocio about that order, 
by the way. In fact. General Hooker was entirely too 
previous. The order said : 

“It is with heartfelt satisfaction that the commanding 
general announces to the army that the operations of the 


374 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


last three days have determined that our enemy must in- 
gloriously fly, or come out from behind his intrenchments 
and give us battle on our own ground, where certain de- 
struction awaits him.” 

We all cheered, of course. It was the proper thing for 
us to do under the circumstances. It wasn’t a bad idea, 
either, that order. It filled the troops with encourage- 
ment and fight, and impressed them with the idea that this 
really was to be the deciding battle of the war. 

It is said that General Hooker took a drink — perhaps 
several of them — after the issuance of that order, and made 
the remark that “God Almighty Himself couldn’t get the 
rebels out of the hole he had put them in.” There is good 
reason for the statement that the general did make some 
such remark as this. 

And although irreverent, there was good reason for 
felicitation over the successful preparations for the contest. 
It is admitted by all military authorities that it was one of 
the best planned campaigns in history, and up to the time 
of the issuing of that order by General Hooker it was 
perfect as a military movement. 

But the very power that General Hooker had so irrev- 
erently referred to was the power that got the enemy out 
of the hole, and turned a glorious victory into one of the 
most disastrous defeats of the civil war. Heaven literally 
interfered and upset the calculations of an able general. 

Man proposes, God disposes. Never was this truer 
than in the Chancellorsville campaign. But of that soon. 

We slept quietly, peacefully and unmolested that night. 
Nothing seemed further off than a battle, except for the 
sanguinary orders that had been read, and the fact that 
when we lay down that night the regiment was formed 
in line of battle, and every man had his musket at his side. 
As for any sign of any enemy there was no more right 
there than there is here where I am writing at the present 
moment. Little does a soldier know what the morrow 
may bring forth. 

Early on Friday morning, May i, after my companions 
had been hammering me to their heart’s content because it 
was my birthday — a boy of nineteen years — we fell in line 
and resumed the march. 



In a few minutes we were ordered up, and we sneaked — that is the word 
— sneaked forward, slowly. 


Page 375 
















































I 




















THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


375 


Soon things “began to look like business.” 

We had scarcely gone more than a mile, when we were 
turned into a line of woods and formed a line of battle. 
We were ordered to throw off our knapsacks and leave 
them there temporarily. But we never saw those knap- 
sacks again. I suppose mine is lying there yet ! I never 
had a knapsack on my shoulders after that morning ! 

Slowly and cautiously we moved forward through the 
woods. The very atmosphere seemed ominous. Pretty 
soon we emerged from the woods and reached an open 
field, where we were ordered to lie down — lie flat to the 
ground. I think that I occupied the space of a flounder ! 

In a few minutes we were ordered up, and we sneaked — 
that is the word — sneaked forward, slowly, cautiously, till 
we reached a post and rail fence along another piece of 
woods. Into this we marched. 

In getting over the fence, our regimental commander, 
Colonel Carman, fell and was wounded! He retired to 
the rear! When I saw him go, I wished heartily that I 
might fall off the fence, too! 

Lieutenant-Colonel Chadwick was happily — for him — 
home on a furlough, and the command of the regiment fell 
on Major Jack Grimes. 

Company D was sent forward as skirmishers, supported 
by Company C. This was to discover the whereabouts 
of the enemy, supposed to be hiding somewhere in the 
front — to go forward and rake up a muss, as it were ! 

We cautiously moved forward some five or six hundred 
feet, momentarily expecting to unearth the enemy. Our 
ears were constantly on the alert for the first sound of the 
ominous minie bullet. But none came. 

Just as we had got in a good position and things looked 
as if the impending conflict could not be long deferred, we 
were surprised to receive orders to retreat, and we went 
into camp again not very far from the camp we had left in 
the morning. Every man felt as if this was a retrograde 
movement and a mistake, and all wondered what it meant. 

But soldiers must ask no questions. They have noth- 
ing to do but obey orders, and the next order we received 
was to begin cutting down the trees in front of us to build 


37 ^ 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


up a breastworks to guard against surprise from the 
enemy during the night. 

While we were engaged in this work we were startled 
by the discharge of a cannon, not in front of us, where 
it had been expected, but immediately in our rear ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


377 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY. 

The discharge of the cannon was immediately followed 
by the usual swish of the flying shell. We were greatly 
surprised that there should be such an apparent attack 
from the rear, instead of the front, where we had been ex- 
pecting it. I dropped to the ground and wallowed in the 
leaves like a pig, to escape the flying missiles from the ex- 
ploding shell. 

But there was no exploding shell, at least near us. The 
shot was fired from our own side, from Battery M, of the 
First New York artillery, and it was followed by two or 
three others of the same sort. 

I thought it was the beginning of the fight, of course, 
but it seems that it was only intended as a “feeler,” to see 
if the rebels would take it up. It elicited no response 
whatever, and everything was as quiet as a graveyard in 
the direction where the enemy was supposed to be. 

This quietness made us all the more apprehensive of an 
attack. It was suspicious and we became impressed with 
the idea that there was some sort of a surprise in store for 
us. We went to work all the more vigorously in the 
completion of the breastworks. 

Well do I remember that day’s work. We had been 
served with a ration of fresh meat, which seemed, for 
some reason, to be always the case immediately before a 
battle. Whether this was to arouse the animal nature 
within us and make us ready for a fight I cannot say, but 
it was always a fact that there was a service of fresh meat 
immediately before a premeditated engagement. 

The cattle had been killed near us, and there lay around 
on the ground great numbers of heads. These we placed 
on top of the breastworks, with the horns pointing toward 
where the enemy was supposed to be. This gave the 
breastworks a terribly ferocious appearance, but, as a mat- 


37 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ter of fact, it was about as useful as the bearskin hat of 
a drum major. 

When I afterward read how the Chinese soldiers went 
to battle with umbrellas, and making hideous noises to 
frighten the Japs before shooting at them, it involuntarily 
took me back to those cows’ horns on top of the breast- 
works at Chancellorsville. We are not so very far ad- 
vanced over the heathen when it comes to the details of 
war, after all our boasted civilization. But I forgot. 
War is not civilization. When the time of perfect civiliza- 
tion arrives there will be no such thing as war. 

We had just about finished the breastworks that after- 
noon when General Ruger ordered us to move forward in 
light marching order. This, bear in mind, was Saturday, 
May 2, 1863 — a date that has gone down in history for 
more than one reason as being one of the most important 
in the history of the war. 

As I said, we were ordered out in light marching order. 
We had already lost our knapsacks, but this meant to 
leave even our haversacks, canteens and blankets. A de- 
tachment was left behind to guard these things, which 
we left with considerable reluctance, for whatever else a 
soldier may cheerfully do he hates to leave behind his 
“grub-bag” and “watering-can.” 

We were conducted to a position far in advance of the 
one we had occupied, and there were ordered to lie down. 
“Lie low and be quiet,” was the order. I lay as low as 
“Br’er Rabbit” and wallowed in the leaves of the woods 
like a hog. We all remained quiet, speaking not above a 
whisper. These things were most disagreeably ominous. 

The rest of our brigade, with General Pleasanton’s 
cavalry and brigade of the Eleventh corps, had been sent 
out to reinforce General Sickles. The latter had been or- 
dered to go forward and reconnoiter the position of the 
enemy, and had come across them sooner than they ex- 
pected. General Sickles had struck the rear guard of 
Jackson’s rebel troops and had taken quite a number of 
prisoners. 

Word came back that the enemy was retreating and we 
all felt delighted at the easy way the thing was going. 
We felt a degree of security that we had not entertained 
in some days. But alas ! It was false security. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


379 


One brigade of the Eleventh corps, and our brigade of 
the Twelfth, were guarding the extreme right of the line 
of battle, while General Sickles and his associates were 
chasing what was then supposed to be the main body of 
a rebel army. 

But here is where the rebels fooled us. The supposed 
retreat which Sickles was following was only a compara- 
tively small detachment of the enemy. The main body 
was flanking us, and the scene of the flank attack was im- 
mediately where we stood. 

The Eleventh corps brigade was a little to the right of 
us. My company was just then on the top of a hill, 
in front of which was a ledge of rocks. On the right was 
the edge of a piece of sparse woods. On the left and be- 
hind us were the sloping, rocky sides of the hill on which 
we stood. 

In front was a low, level space, like a plain. From my 
elevated position I could see General Sickles’ troops cor- 
raling the rebel prisoners and bringing them toward us. 
A forlorn lot they were, in their dirty gray uniforms, 
shapeless slouch hats, and generally disreputable appear- 
ance. I felt pity for the poor fellows, on many of whose 
faces I imagined I could see traces of satisfaction over 
having been taken prisoners. 

It was just before dusk. The sun had set in a scene of 
glory behind the western hills. The sky was cloudless, 
golden in hue. It was the approach of a beautiful night. It 
was so beautiful that I even remember having remarked it, 
there in that exciting scene. 

Exciting scene, did I say? The excitement was just 
to commence. 

Suddenly there were yells, cries, shouts, and the whiz 
of flying bullets on every side. 

Immediately I was surrounded by thousands of flying 
men. 

At first I thought they were Confederates — that the 
enemy had flanked us and broken through our ranks. 
This was true. The Confederates had really flanked us 
and broken through our ranks, but in the hurrying, bus- 
tling, excited crowds of men rushing around and past me, 
I could see that there were as many blue uniforms as gray. 


3 So 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The corps badges on the tops of their hats also denoted 
that there were Federal soldiers in the rushing mob. The 
half moons of the Eleventh corps predominated, because 
they had borne the brunt of the flanking movement. They 
were taking French leave to escape capture. But there 
were other corps fully represented also. 

It was a remarkable and curious rout. The Confed- 
erates, right there in our midst, all running, all shouting 
and yelling, were as numerous as the fleeing boys in blue. 
Their eyes fairly bulged from their heads in their terror 
and excitement. Many of them were hatless, and their hair 
streamed behind from the breeze caused by their rapid 
flight. Hundreds were unarmed, having thrown away 
their guns in their panic. 

Then there came horses, some riderless, pack-mules, ar- 
tillery caissons, ambulances and what not, in inextricable 
confusion, a perfect mob, demoralized, disorganized, ut- 
terly beyond control. 

They came like an avalanche — like a whirlwind. Union 
and Confederate, blue and gray, were inextricably mixed 
together, all rushing, screaming, yelling, shouting ! 

Nothing could withstand that rush. For an instant I 
stood petrified, and was then swept from my feet as if I 
had been a wisp. What became of my comrades I knew not. 
They had disappeared, been swallowed up in the tidal 
wave of humanity. I was knocked down and rolled, for- 
tunately, behind an overhanging ledge of rock. 

I did not attempt to rise. If I had I would have been 
trampled to death in an instant. Instead, I crowded as 
closely as possible under the protecting rock, while over 
me there poured a steady stream of human beings, friends 
and foes alike. They went over that rock, jumping over 
to the further side, like the endless roll of Erie’s waters 
over the precipice at Niagara. 

What was it all? What did it mean? 

History calmly tells us that a Federal corps on the ex- 
treme right had been surprised by General Stonewall Jack- 
son, and the latter, by a flank movement, had tried to 
cut off the Union corps. In the darkening dusk it was 
hard to see what was going on, but the almost entrapped 



‘ You are my prisoner, you 


Yank 

I 


! ” 




Page 381 
















































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* • 




















































I 





















THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 381 

Federals adopted the old motto that sometimes “discretion 
is the better part of valor.” 

At all events General Jackson did not bag his game, and 
that was enough. 

After a little while the main portion of the grand rush 
subsided and I thought it was safe to emerge from my 
place behind the rock and start to hunt for the Thirteenth 
Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers. 

I straightened myself up, and was about to pick up 
my rifle from the ground, when a rough hand was placed 
on my shoulder and a gruff voice met my astonished, and 
I might say, very much startled ears. 

“You are my prisoner, you Yank!” 

I turned, and found myself in the firm grasp of a stal- 
wart rebel sergeant ! 


382 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

A SECOND BALAKLAVA. 

I was a prisoner ! 

A more terrible situation it would be hard to conceive. 
The approaching darkness of the ending day was made 
the more gruesome by the smoke that arose from the de- 
sultory firing of many rifles, and the intermittent boom of 
artillery posted on every elevated position. 

Demoralized soldiers were rushing hither and thither, 
apparently without system or order, separated from their 
regiments, without commanders. Cavalry horses, some 
riderless, galloped to and fro, apparently not knowing 
where they were going. The whole battlefield was a 
scene of indescribable confusion, noise and smoke. 

I turned to look at the Confederate soldier who had 
taken me his prisoner. He was a tall, gaunt specimen of 
a rebel, with protruding cheek bones, little, glistening eyes, 
hair long and unkempt. On his head was a broad- 
brimmed, gray slouch hat, much the worse for wear and 
dirt. His uniform, if uniform it may be called, looked 
like the clothing of a man who had just come from a 
trench where he had been mending a bursted water main. 

The rifle he carried, as well as the blanket slung over 
his shoulder, his canteen and haversack, I immediately 
recognized as having been recently taken from some Union 
soldier. Half the Confederate army were provided with 
these equipments from the Northern side, although where 
they obtained them was a mystery. 

I must confess that my captor presented a rather pic- 
turesque appearance. He looked like a cowboy on the 
plains — or in a circus. Although he was so tall and gaunt, 
there was a kindly expression in his eye, and I was not the 
least frightened, for some reason or other. 

“Well, now that you’ve got me, what are you going to 
do with me ?” I asked. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 383 

“Wall, Yank,” replied he, “I reckon as how we-uns 'll 
have to take you-uns back to the coop.” 

“ I’ve a good mind to take you prisoner,” said I impu- 
dently. 

This made the rebel laugh outright. And it was rather 
funny. I had no rifle or other arms, and my captor was 
not only well provided in that respect, but he was almost 
twice my size. He could easily have picked me up and 
carried me off. The idea struck me as being comical. It 
wasn’t a very cheerful place for mirth, but we both 
laughed in concert at the idea I had suggested. 

“The trouble ’pears to be, jist neow,” said he, with that 
peculiar twang noticeable alike ’way “down East” and in 
the South, “the trouble ’pears to be, that we-uns can’t tell 
which way to go. Things seem to be all mixed up. We- 
uns men and you-uns men be a running all ways ter onct, 
an’ if we-uns don’t look out, we-uns ’ll take you back to 
your own camp, an’ we-uns ’ll be taken prisoners by you- 
uns a’ter all !” 

It seemed very likely. Union and Confederate soldiers 
appeared to be inextricably mixed in the wild, panicky 
rush that still continued, although it was subsiding. So 
we just stood there, hardly knowing what to do. A mo- 
ment later, however, something occurred that riveted both 
our attention, the contemplation of which so absorbed us 
that we both forgot our respective conditions. 

A Union general, accompanied by several members of 
his staff, rode up to near where we stood. I heard subse- 
quently that it was General Pleasanton. The latter called 
to him another officer, a major of cavalry. 

“Where is your command, major?” asked General 
Pleasanton. 

“Right over there under the edge of that woods,” re- 
plied the major, saluting. 

“How many men have you?” 

“About six hundred, general. But there’s Captain Bas- 
sett’s cavalry immediately beyond, and I can get them if 
necessary. That would make twelve hundred, about.” 

“How comes it that Captain Bassett is in command? 
Where is the colonel?” 


3 8 4 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“He is wounded, general. He was shot from his horse 
only a few minutes ago.” 

“Very well, major. We have not a moment to lose. I 
want you to hold back that corps coming over at the edge 
of the woods at the foot of the hill, and hold them till I 
place my battery here. Do you understand ?” 

I saw the face of the major first flush and then turn 
pale. And no wonder ! 

From the position where we stood we could see the rebel 
corps referred to approaching. It was General Jackson’s 
Confederate troops — the same that had flanked the Elev- 
enth corps and driven them back, causing the panic- 
stricken stampede which we had just gone through. In 
that corps, approaching us to give battle on a part of the 
Union army where all was demoralization, where there 
was not a gun in position for action, there were from 
fifteen to twenty thousand men! 

And yet that vast body was to be kept back by a com- 
paratively insignificant body of twelve hundred cavalry- 
men ! 

The major saw what was meant, and turned pale. But 
I will never forget his answer: “General, I understand 
your order and will do my duty.” 

Now, here was the theory of that murderous movement. 
General Pleasanton wanted to bring some of his artillery 
to that hill, place them in position, and be ready to repel 
the attack of the rapidly approaching corps under General 
Jackson. It would take ten or fifteen minutes at the very 
least to post the artillery. That time must be secured at 
whatever sacrifice. 

It was simply a question of occupying the enemy’s at- 
tention for ten or fifteen minutes. In projecting a body 
of twelve hundred men against a corps of some twenty 
thousand, there was but one result possible. That was the 
practical annihilation of the smaller number. 

It was this principle on which General Grant later on 
prosecuted the war. He argued that war was but a ques- 
tion of attrition. That, other things being equal, the 
larger army would succeed. By just so many men as the 
larger army exceeded the smaller, just so many men would 



It was a ride to death, but unflinchingly did that major and his twelve 
hundred men throw themselves into the jaws of almost 
certain destruction. 


Page 385 






THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 385 

be left on the larger and victorious side when the battle 
was over. 

In the present instance it was merely a question of 
the number of minutes that would be consumed by the ap- 
proaching rebel corps to annihilate the interposing Union 
cavalry. Would it take ten or fifteen minutes? If so, then 
there would be time for the posting of the artillery. If 
not, then the movement would be a failure. 

It was a ride to death, but unflinchingly did that major 
and his twelve hundred men throw themselves into the 
jaws of almost certain destruction. 

And I saw that movement — an achievement that has 
gone down into history in prose and in poetry as one of 
the most marvelous examples of bravery seen in the civil 
war. It was an achievement that rivaled that at Bala- 
klava, made immortal by Tennyson’s famous “Charge of 
the Light Brigade.” 

Yes, I was an eyewitness of that terrible cavalry charge 
of twelve hundred against fifteen or twenty thousand. I 
and my rebel companion stood there petrified with amaze- 
ment, as we watched the scene. We saw the cavalry 
charge into the rebel corps, only to be cut down in rows. 
It was an indescribably awful conflict while it lasted. 

Men were shot from their horses. Horses were shot un- 
der the men, and the latter in many instances fell under 
the steeds struggling in their death agony. Soon the 
smoke rising from the firearms arose and obscured the 
view from our vision. 

In the meantime General Pleasanton was getting his 
artillery into position on the hill near us. For some reason 
we — my captor and I — stood there, comparatively isolated 
from the rest. Near us were a number of Union men in 
charge of detachments, men who had been taken prisoners 
by the enemy the same as I had been. It was rather a 
strange situation. 

The trouble was that things had got so much mixed 
that the rebels did not know which way to take us. Union 
and Confederate soldiers seemed to be everywhere alike. 
This perhaps was never known before or after during the 
entire war, but all who were in the midst of the Eleventh 


3 86 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


corps rout at Chancellorsville will testify that it was as 
here described. 

The movement of the handful of cavalry was a success. 
It took the rebel corps fully twenty minutes to disperse, 
I might almost say annihilate, for of that gallant twelve 
hundred, if the records are right, but thirty-eight sur- 
vived the charge ! Among the first killed was the gallant 
major to whom General Pleasanton had given the fateful 
order. 

But the posting of the cannon soon changed the aspect 
of affairs. In a few minutes shrapnel and shell were plow- 
ing down the ranks of the approaching troops, and they 
were driven back. 

A moment later a division of infantry attacked General 
Jackson’s corps on their left, and they were driven off in 
confusion, and as history puts it, “with great loss.” 

My rebel captor, still stood there standing guard over 
me nominally, but so absorbed in what he had just wit- 
nessed that he said not a word nor made any attempt to 
conduct me further. 

Just then a sudden inspiration seized me, and acting 
upon it, in less time than it takes to tell it I had made my 
escape. There was probably never anything like it during 
the war. I have to smile every time I think of it even to 
this day. 

But I will wait till the next chapter to tell just what did 
happen. 



In the meantime General Pleasanton was getting his artillery into 
position on the hill near us. 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


3 8 7 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

A QUEER ESCAPE. 

Now the usual weapons of warfare are rifles, pistols 
and swords. I don’t think it is customary to use one’s 
fists in battle. It is not often that the two opposing sides 
get near enough together to use swords, let alone 
knuckles. 

But this is an exception. I did use my fists. I knocked 
my rebel captor down, and made my escape. I believe it is 
the only time in my life, at least since schoolboy days, 
that I ever knocked a person down with a blow from my 
fist. 

As stated in the preceding chapter, my rebel captor and 
I were simply petrified with amazement at the scene we 
had just witnessed, and we still stood there after it was 
practically over. As before stated, we were on a rocky 
ledge or hill, one side of which, that toward the enemy, 
was precipitous, while the other side was sloping. 

My tall companion stood a little lower than I, so that 
our heads were about even. Glancing down I noticed that 
he was standing right on the edge of a rock, from which 
there was a step of four or five feet. 

Visions of the horrors of Libby prison, about which I 
had heard so much, flashed through my mind with the 
rapidity of lightning. Why should I go there without a 
struggle, at least? Was it possible that I might make my 
escape ? 

Then I noticed the advantage of my position. That set- 
tled it! My thoughts, which were working with electric 
swiftness, were hardly more rapid than my action. 

An inspiration seized me, and I suddenly let out, with 
my full force, with my right fist, and gave that big rebel 
a blow under his ear that must have astonished him great- 
ly, even if it did not hurt him much. 

I saw him reel, lose his balance, and fall headlong from 


3 88 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the edge of the rock where he had been standing. As 
he fell his gun flew from his hands, and he went sprawl- 
ing down the steep side of the elevation. 

I went the other way ! 

Talk about sprinting! Talk about bicycle scorching and 
breaking records on the Blank Company’s patent light- 
weight, non-puncturable tires ! 

None of them could hold a candle to the gait I main- 
tained as I rushed down the other side of the hill. I ran, 
I knew not whither, neither did I care, so long as I was 
escaping. I went through a brook without as much as 
wetting my feet, jumped little precipices, vaulted over de- 
serted breastworks, dodged under the shells flying from 
the cannon’s mouths, and never stopped till I at last fell, 
almost senseless, with palpitating heart and panting 
breath, alongside a little brook in the midst of a thicket ! 

But I was safe, and that was all that I cared about. 

I never knew what became of my rebel captor. While I 
was running I felt the buzz of a bullet swish past my 
head, which I imagine came from his rifle, although of 
course there was no telling who fired the bullets that were 
flying around so recklessly just about then and there ! 

But I was left quiet only for a moment. There was a 
mighty cry and yell, a wild rush, and the first thing I 
knew I was knocked headlong into the brook by a team of 
runaway horses — a six-horse team at that ! 

It may sound queer to the reader who has not been in 
the war to hear one talking about horses running away in 
the midst of a battle. That sounds too much like an every- 
day street incident. But nevertheless such was the fact. 
It was a very frequent occurrence, and many men were 
injured by runaway horses during the war. Horses are 
horses, whether at home or in the army, and they will run 
away just the same and from similar causes. 

It is a wonderful thing how a horse becomes acquainted 
with his surroundings. Here at home, no matter how 
much he may be frightened at first, he soon becomes ac- 
customed to the electric cars and the steam road roller. In 
the army the horse becomes accustomed to the moving of 
large bodies, the racket of the bands, and even the intoler- 
able noises of a battle. But some little thing, insignificant 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 389 

in itself, but out of the usual order, will startle a horse and 
set him to running- away. 

I don’t know what started the team that ran over me. 
They were attached to the limber — the front wheels and 
ammunition box — of a cannon, and they came dashing 
down the hill, striking me and knocking me into the brook, 
and passing over me. 

The soft mud in the bottom of the brook probably saved 
my life. I was pressed deep into the slimy ooze, and cov- 
ered from head to foot — a veritable “mud bath.” 

I pulled myself out with difficulty, quite badly hurt, 
having received a severe bruise on the hip. I did not think 
much of it at the time, but it began to hurt badly after- 
ward, and has bothered me ever since more or less, par- 
ticularly in cold and damp weather. 

But I was young then, and comparatively tough, and 
although I was still stiff and sore, yet I scrambled out, 
and scraping off some of the mud with a stick, proceeded 
to discover “where I was at.” 

Just then I heard a moan in the bushes near me, and a 
cry for help. I went to the spot and found an officer lying 
there with the blood flowing from a wound in the fleshy 
part of his leg. A closer inspection discovered, to my as- 
tonishment, that it was none other than Major Grimes. 

“'Why, major,” said I, “what’s the matter? Are you 
hurt?” 

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m shot through the leg, I guess. 
Can’t you help me to get somewhere ?” 

The major was a big man, and it was about all I could 
do to support him on his feet, but I managed to do so, and 
led him back a ways, where there was a fire and a little yel- 
low flag stuck in the ground. This indicated the headquar- 
ters of some surgical detachment. The doctors were there 
engaged in their customary butchering work. I turned the 
major over to their tender mercies. 

Perhaps Major Grimes never knew till now who was 
the private that led him out of the thickets where he was 
shot, on that eventful Saturday evening, May 2, 1863. 
Major Grimes was not seriously hurt, however. It was 
only a flesh wound, and not dangerous, although, doubt- 
less, painful enough. 


390 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I then started out to see if I could find the Thirteenth 
Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers. But it was like find- 
ing a needle in a haystack. It was simply a disorganized 
mob. 

It had become dark, and only for the faint lights of 
campfires here and there was there any guiding beacon for 
the homeless wanderers who were looking for their re- 
spective commands. 

In a case like this, the regimental flag is the designating 
emblem of the position of the command. I looked for a 
long while for the colors of the Thirteenth in vain. I 
passed flag after flag, but they were all of some other regi- 
ment. 

Non-commissioned officers were calling out “This way 
for the One Hundred and Seventh New York,” “Here is 
the Twenty-seventh Indiana,” “Fall in, Third Wisconsin,” 
and such cries, which facilitated matters considerably, and 
knowing these to be regiments of my own brigade I felt 
that I must be getting pretty close “at home.” 

And I was. In a few moments more I heard the wel- 
come cry, “Thirteenth New Jersey,” and proceeded there. 

Was this the Thirteenth New Jersey? 

There were the well-known colors, sure enough. And 
there was Corneil Mersereau, poor fellow, holding the 
flag — his last day on earth, for early the next morning he 
was killed. 

“Hello, Corneil,” said I, “how’s my boots? All right?” 

“Yes, the boots are all right,” he replied. “But you can 
have them in the morning. I wouldn’t have them for a 
gift. My feet are covered with blisters.” 

“All right,” I answered. “I will take them back in the 
morning, for my feet seem to have got a rest.” 

But I never wore those boots again. Mersereau was 
killed with them on in the morning, as I said before. 

The Thirteenth New Jersey Volunteers never presented 
a more forlorn aspect than they did that night. When 
they arrived there were not a hundred men there. They 
had all become scattered in the wild rush of the evening, , 
and had not come together again. But one by one the boys j 
came straggling in, so that by 9 o’clock there were three 



There were the well-known colors, sure enough. And there was Cornell 
Mersereau, poor fellow, holding the flag. 


Page 390 





THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


39 1 


or four hundred of them. The most of the remainder came 
back during the night. 

Some never came back. What became of them is not 
known. Whether they were killed, and buried as “un- 
known,” or whether they went to some rebel prison to die 
the most lingering and horrible of all deaths, is something 
that perhaps will never be known. They are down on the 
matter of fact army rolls as “missing.” 

Everything went crosswise that day and night. By 
some strange fate we occupied the same breastworks we 
had built earlier in the day, and there were the steers’ 
horns just as we had placed them, looking as ferocious 
as ever. 

But we were on the other side of the breastworks. The 
rebels had got around oh the side we had occupied in the 
forenoon, and we had got around to their position. Every- 
thing seemed to have been turned topsy-turvy. That 
‘Tout of the Eleventh corps” was one of the worst panics 
the Army of the Potomac ever experienced. 

There was no chance for rest that night, however. We 
had not been long in that position behind the breastworks 
before we were again ordered to move forward. 

Scarcely had we started when there began a rattle of 
musketry in front of us, and a roar of artillery in the rear ! 


392 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

SHOOTING OUR OWN MEN. 

It was right here that General Stonewall Jackson was 
killed. 

General Jackson was one of the ablest officers on the 
Confederate side. His only superior, either in rank or 
ability, on the side of the rebels was General Robert E. 
Lee. 

It seems that General Jackson, flushed with the suc- 
cess of his early evening maneuver, which resulted in the 
disastrous repulse of the Eleventh corps, undertook to 
follow up his advantage. 

He ordered General Hill’s division to the front, and it 
was the firing from these troops that we had just heard. 
General Jackson, accompanied by his staff, rode forward 
to examine the position of things personally. The Union 
pickets, under General Berry’s command, heard him com- 
ing and fired. 

Jackson fell back toward his own line, but in a different 
place from where he had started. Hill’s (Confederate) 
troops, mistaking Jackson and his staff for the Union 
troops, fired upon them, killing and wounding half the 
escort, and fatally wounding General Jackson. 

So Stonewall Jackson was killed by his own men, and 
not by the troops of the Northern army. 

Suddenly the firing ceased. The rattle of the musketry 
in front and the booming of the cannon in our rear stopped 
almost simultaneously, as if from a preconcerted signal. 

The command of the Thirteenth Regiment had fallen 
on Captain Beardsley, the senior line officer, all the mem- 
bers of the field and staff being either absent or wounded. 
I remember how he walked up and down the line behind 
us, urging us to be calm and cool, and advising us to lie 
close to the ground. We did not need a second admonition 
of the latter kind. As for myself I fairly scooped a hole 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


393 


in the ground, so that I could snuggle closer and be out 
of the way of any stray bullets that might come along. 

About midnight, Burney’s division of Sickles’ corps 
made an attack on the enemy. The moon had come out 
and it was quite light in the open, although dark enough 
in the woods. The ground that we occupied was composed 
of alternate open spaces and dense patches of woods. 

The moonlight charge on the enemy aroused them like 
a broken hive of angry hornets, and immediately there 
came a perfect shower of bullets whistling over our heads. 
We lay only a short distance in the rear of the attacking 
column. 

Then the Union artillery behind us began their cannon- 
ading of the woods in which the rebels were massed. In a 
moment or so there commenced the worst racket that I had 
ever heard. 

Upon the raised ground, some quarter or half a mile 
in our rear, the guns of the artillery were stationed. We 
occupied lower ground, but the mouths of the cannon were 
pointed right toward us, although of course with elevated 
aim. Anybody who knows anything about it is aware that 
the most noise and most concussion from the discharge 
of a cannon is experienced by those in front of the guns. 
The noise was simply terrific. A hundred summer 
thunderstorms combined could not come anywhere near it. 

The murderous shot and shell passed directly over our 
heads. In the night the burning fuses left behind a train 
of fire like a sky rocket. This made, as it were, a perfect 
arch of fire over us. The rebel artillery replied. They 
accepted the challenge and the long range duel began. 

No pen could describe an artillery duel. It is as if all 
the demons of hell were let loose at once. The shrieking 
shell, the deafening thunder of the cannons, the fiery arch 
over us, the shouts of the men, combined to make a scene 
the like of which is indescribable. 

Occasionally a shell would prematurely explode in the 
air, and the fragments would scatter in every direction, a 
perfect rain of broken iron, dealing death and destruction 
where the missiles might fall. Fortunately none was hurt 
in our regiment, although there were a number wounded 
in this manner in other commands. 


394 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Once or twice the shells from the opposite sides col- 
lided in midair. They burst simultaneously with a terrific 
crash. 

The old soldiers could distinguish the kind of a cannon 
from which the shell was fired from the character of the 
noise they made while passing through the air. Some 
went through with a prolonged shriek. They were Arm- 
strongs. Others went with a “chew-chew-chew,” like a 
train of cars. These were the Whitworths. Then again 
there was a peculiar sort of a shell, such as came from 
Best’s and Hexamer’s batteries, that seemed almost 
human. Their noise could be best interpreted as : 

“Where-is-he — where-is-he — where-is-he !” 

And when the shell struck and exploded, some of the 
boys would answer: 

“There he is !” 

For an hour, maybe more, this infernal artillery duel 
continued, till we were almost deafened. Startling as it 
was at first, the men finally became accustomed to it. They 
talked of other things as calmly as if they had been at 
home. Many even went to sleep and perhaps dreamed — 
perhaps dreamed of their peaceful homes ! 

It is wonderful how quickly human nature can adapt it- 
self to circumstances. It is marvelous under what condi- 
tions a soldier can sleep. 

After a long while, after the apparent waste of a good 
many tons of iron and steel, the duel came to an end. It 
did not stop suddenly, but gradually died down, till, after 
a desultory explosion now and then, everything became as 
quiet as the country, and so far as any noises were con- 
cerned, there was nothing warlike to be thought of. 

This silence was so intense as to be ominous. Old sol- 
diers do not like anything mysterious. Anything that they 
cannot understand they regard with suspicion. A silence 
like this, under such circumstances, meant that something 
was up. 

There was! 

It must have been along about 2 or 3 o’clock in the 
morning when suddenly, from the woods in front of us, 
there began the most exciting sort of a racket. There were 
yells and cheers and discharges of musketry. The line of 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


395 1 

Union troops immediately in front of us had apparently 
become engaged with the enemy. 

A singular thing struck us, however. The yell that the 
rebels were indulging in was not the regular “rebel yell.” 

When the Union troops cheered their cry was a succes- 
sion of “Hurrahs/'’ generally repeated three times. The 
rebel war-cry was more continuous and unbroken, a sort 
of “Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi !” 

It was not the rebel “Hi-yi-yi” that came from the 
troops in front of us, and which were shooting in our di- 
rection. It was, on the contrary, the regular “hurrah” of 
the North ! 

What could this mean ? 

“Oh, that’s plain enough to understand,” said Lieu- 
tenant Wells. “The rebels have adopted our hurrah to 
deceive us. They are using it as a surprise or a decoy. It 
is an old trick of the Johnnies.” 

We all thought that this was a good explanation, for 
there was no doubt entertained that the opposing forces in 
our front were those of the enemy. 

The fight continued for some little time. We were just 
beginning to think it was about time for the Thirteenth 
to take the place of the line actively engaged in front, when 
suddenly an unexpected, a startling thing occurred. 

Our side had made a little charge and captured a num- 
ber of prisoners. The fighting had been in the woods, 
where it was quite dark. Neither side could see the other. 
The muskets had been aimed and fired from the sound 
rather than at any body of troops, for it was too dark to 
distinguish the troops. 

But when the prisoners were brought in, and taken out 
in the Open field where the moonlight was brighter, a ter- 
rible discovery was made. 

We had been fighting Union soldiers! We had been 
shooting our own men ! 


39 ^ 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

NOW FOR THE GREAT FIGHT. 

At this moment General Ruger rode up. 

“For God’s sake,” he shouted, “stop this! Cease firing! 
Send some one out to tell them that these are our men.” 

To send some one on this errand was rather dangerous 
work. It was like flying in the face of death to go forth 
and inform the opposing army they were making a mis- 
take. 

But there were brave men in those famous days of the 
war. Volunteers there were in plenty. These messengers 
of peace started on their dangerous journey, and some of 
them succeeded, by making a detour, in getting around 
to the commander and explaining the fact that they were 
fighting their own men. 

The shooting stopped, and we advanced and mingled 
with the men we had just been trying to kill. Then the 
mistake was verified. We men in blue had been really 
fighting other men in blue, shooting them down like dogs. 

I don’t think anything ever happened during the war 
more heartrending. The idea that we had been shooting 
at our own men was something terrible. The feeling we 
experienced was indescribable. 

And there on the ground they lay, brave boys in blue, 
some already still in death', some writhing and struggling 
in their last agony, many grievously wounded. Shot by 
their own fellows ! 

It was horrible ! 

We had fallen into precisely the same sort of a mistake 
as happened when General Stonewall Jackson was killed. 

Some of the Union soldiers further in the advance had 
been ordered to change position. In making the movement 
they passed to the front of what had previously been the 
advance guard. The latter, not being able to distinguish 



At this moment General Ruger rode up. 

“ For God’s sake,” he shouted, “ stop this!” 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


397 


blue from gray in the dark, naturally took them to be the 
enemy. 

The Union troops changing position, being thus as- 
saulted, of course imagined that the rebels had got in the 
rear, and turned upon them. Each thought the other the 
enemy, and thus the nocturnal battle began. 

The discovery of the terrible mistake nearly threw the 
Union soldiers on both sides of the engagement in a panic. 
For some time they were completely demoralized. The 
criticism the officers received for the blunder was unlim- 
ited. It was also unjust, for it could not well have been 
avoided. But the men were so indignant at the occurrence 
that they were altogether unreasonable. Under the sad 
circumstances of the case it was only natural. 

There was a disposition on the part of both officers and 
men that this night fighting, when friend could not be dis- 
tinguished from foe, ought to be stoppd. And it was 
stopped. No orders were given, but it appeared to be a 
tacit understanding that whatever further fighting there 
was to be done would be deferred till after daylight. 

We remained lying on the ground for the remainder of 
the night. We hugged our rifles as our bedfellows, for 
there was no telling when there might be another attack 
from some source. There was not much sleep after that. 
The men were all too much excited. The episodes of the 
night had been too enervating to permit of slumber even 
on the part of the most calloused. 

Everybody instinctively knew now that the great battle 
was on. Everybody appreciated the fact that the morrow 
would be the decisive day. It was felt that the fighting 
would begin at daylight. 

But it did not. 

It was as beautiful a morning as the Lord ever made. 
It was Sunday — the first Sunday in May. I distinctly re- 
member what a beautiful morning it was, how all nature 
seemed to smile, how peaceful it all appeared. 

There was not the first sound of battle anywhere. The 
birds were singing in the branches of the trees, that were 
soon to be torn asunder with shrieking shot and shell. 
The men were standing or lying around, talking quietly 
and wondering what was going to happen next. In the 


39 ^ 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


distance could be heard an occasional bugle call or some 
drum signal, and mounted aids and orderlies galloped 
about as if delivering orders, but otherwise everything 
was remarkably quiet. 

Before daylight along came that ominous ration of fresh 
beef — so indicative of approaching carnage. We were 
being fed for the battle. 

“There’s a schlaughter haus somewhere by here al- 
retty,” said John Ick, who had been remarkably quiet dur- 
ing the past day and night. 

“It’s quite evident, John,” I replied, “for here is some 
of the beef that has been slaughtered.” 

“We vill be schlaughtered dot vay our own sellefs, I 
tinks so mit,” replied John Ick in his broken English. 
“We vas goin’ to haf some bad fights before much longer, 
ain’t it?” 

“Oh, don’t get the blues, John,” I said. 

Those were the last words I ever addressed to John Ick. 
That was the last time I ever heard his voice. The next 
time I saw him he was dead. 

Even while we were talking there came the sound of a 
cannon. 

It was but a single shot. A moment later it was an- 
swered by another, further down the line. Then another 
and another, gradually becoming so distant that it could 
scarcely be heard. 

Well enough did we know what that meant. It was the 
signal ! 

It was the signal for the great battle to begin. 

And thus, on that quiet, beautiful Sunday morning, 
May 3, 1863, began the battle of Chancellorsville proper. 
Of course all the occurrences of the two preceding days 
were a part of the battle. They were the preliminaries. 

But now the great conflict itself was to commence. 

The battlefield extended from where we were, on the 
extreme right at Chancellorsville, to far beyond Freder- 
icksburg, sixteen miles or so below. 

All along the river we had advanced across to the en- 
emy’s side and challenged him on his own soil. The rebels 
had a clear space of country to fall back upon. We were 
backed by the river. We felt that we could not retreat if 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


399 


we desired. But no one thought of retreating on the 
Northern side that day. We expected to “drive the enemy 
ignominiously from his lair,” as General Hooker had put 
it in his famous order only two days previous. 

The Union cannon signals were at once repeated on the 
rebel side, summoning that army to battle array. It 
sounded like the acceptance of a challenge. The gauntlet 
which we had thrown down had been picked up by our 
antagonists ! 

Immediately there was a commotion all over. Corps 
commanders, surrounded by their staffs, could be seen 
galloping from the vicinity of General Hooker’s headquar- 
ters at the old Chancellorsville house to the different parts 
of the field where their commands were located. 

Orderlies and messengers dashed hither and thither. 
Flying artillery earned its name by flying to advantage- 
ously elevated positions further in the advance. Great 
bodies of cavalry galloped off somewhere. 

Here and there, in the rear, we could see the staffs stuck 
in the ground from the tops of which waved a yellow flag. 
Arranged in rows near these ominous yellow flags of the 
surgical and hospital departments, we could see the ambu- 
lances, all in waiting for their horrible freight, for soon 
their passengers would be dismembered and mutilated hu- 
man beings. 

The surgeons took off their coats, rolled up their shirt 
sleeves, and placed their glittering array of knives and 
saws handy within reach on trays. Attendants superin- 
tended the placing of splints and bandages and piles of 
lint. 

They were getting ready to mend the men soon to be 
broken. 

I think this affected me more than anything else. 
Would I be one of those soon to fall into the surgeon’s 
Jhands? Or would some cruel and relentless bullet do its 
' work so effectively that no surgeon would be needed ? 

They say that in the navy the worst moment is when 
the sailors sprinkle sand on the decks to absorb the blood 
of the men to be killed and wounded, so that the living 
will not slip while in the performance of their grewsome 
work! In the army, I imagine that the supreme moment 


400 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


of mental torture is when one contemplates the systematic 
preparations of the surgeons, as just feebly described. 

But something else very soon took our attention from 
the surgeons and everything else rearward. 

A sudden commotion in front of us. A crash ! 

And the bullets began to whizz past and over us like 
hail, literally like hail ! 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


4CJ[ 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

SURROUNDED BY DEATH. 

Literally like hail flew the wicked minie bullets over 
and around us ! 

When bullets come along singly, or in twos or threes, 
they come with a buzz and a zip, very similar to a big 
bumble bee flying past you and striking against a fence 
or a barn. But imagine, if you can, the sudden capsizing 
of a thousand hives of big bees and the simultaneous re- 
lease of the insects. 

The single buzz would become one continuous hum or 
whirr. And so became the noise of the thousands of bul- 
lets that now whistled around and above us ! 

I say “above” because we were just then lying flat upon 
the ground, waiting for our turn to become actively en- 
gaged in the battle that was raging in all its fury. The 
Second Massachusetts and Third Wisconsin had been or- 
dered in first. The Thirteenth New Jersey, Twenty-sev- 
enth Indiana and One Hundred and Seventh New York 
were waiting there to relieve the first two mentioned 
regiments when they should have exhausted their ammu- 
nition or have been driven back or annihilated ! 

I heard a voice, low, cool, calm, behind me. I turned 
my head and saw Captain Beardsley, who, as before said, 
was in command of our regiment just then. The rest of us, 
officers and men alike, were hugging the earth for all we 
were worth, so as to expose as little of our bodies as possi- 
ble to the storm of missiles flying about us. But there 
stood Captain Beardsley, erect, courageous, unexcited, as 
cool and collected as if he were in the peaceful street of 
a city, utterly regardless of the bullets whistling around 
him, and of the shells that now and then exploded close 
by! I was struck with amazement at such an exhibition 
of bravery. 

“Keep cool, men,” said he, in that calm, low voice of 


402 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


his, “keep perfectly cool, lie low, and don’t get excited. 
Be calm. Keep cool now !” 

Keep cool ! I couldn’t have kept cool to save my life. I 
was fairly burning up with the fever of terror and appre- 
hension. My tongue was hard and dry, and I could hardly 
have spoken if I had tried. And yet, although thus hot, 
I was shivering, not from cold, of course, but from very 
fear. 

Some men pretend not to have been afraid in the be- 
ginning of a battle. It is my opinion that such men de- 
liberately lie. I think every man there was frightened. 
Captain Beardsley was outwardly calm, but he was as 
white as a corpse, and I doubt not that he was fully as 
terrified as the rest of us, but he was too much of a man 
to show it. 

I think the inaction of the moment, coupled with the 
knowledge that it was “our turn next,” was a thousand 
times worse than it was for those actively engaged a hun- 
dred yards or so ahead of us. In times of danger there is 
nothing like activity to keep the mind from constantly 
thinking, dreading, apprehending. Great calamities are 
magnified by apprehension, the same as pleasures are en- 
hanced in the anticipation. 

As 1 turned my head, still close to the ground, to look 
at Captain Beardsley, a staff officer rode up to the captain 
to give him some order. Perhaps it might have been the 
order for the Thirteenth to advance! It was Adjutant- 
General Williams, of our division. As he leaned over the 
neck of his horse to speak the word to Captain Beardsley, 
I saw a terrible sight. 

Suddenly the chin and lower jaw of the adjutant-gen- 
eral disappeared entirely ! In its place was a mass of blood, 
raw flesh and gore ! A piece of shell had come along and 
torn away the entire lower portion of his face. One could 
not see pieces of shell in their flight, so rapidly did they 
go, but the effect could be seen, which made it seem as 
mysterious as it was horrifying. 

The adjutant-general sat still on his horse for an instant, 
with the blood gushing from his neck in a great stream. 
Then he reeled and fell. He soon bled to death where he 
lay. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


403 


I involuntarily shrieked ! A man lying almost along- 
side of me, a member of Company I (for I was the last 
man in Company K’s line), raised his head to see what 
was the matter. 

It was his death ! Even while I looked at him, I saw a 
little red spot appear on the side of his forehead, the head 
fell back, the man gave a convulsive stretch, and was 
dead ! 

If I had been hugging the ground closely before, I 
fairly wallowed in the dirt after that ! 

From where I lay I could see some distance down the 
side of the slope where we were located. The field pre- 
sented a scene of devastation. The bodies of horses and 
men could be seen lying everywhere. Some were silent in 
death ; others were writhing in their last agony. Broken 
ammunition wagons, • dismounted cannon, accouterments, 
rifles and other debris were scattered all over the field. A 
dense smoke hovered over the scene, giving the atmos- 
phere a lurid glow. Everything seemed on fire ! Every- 
thing appeared to be red — the color of blood. 

I saw a mounted orderly galloping across the field. Sud- 
denly, as if by magic, the head of the horse flew off ! It 
literally disappeared ! An exploding shell had decapitated 
the animal while on a gallop. 

And yet, strange to relate, that horse actually gave two 
more leaps before it fell ! The muscular action of the gal- 
lop had continued two jumps before the nerves could tele- 
graph the word that the horse had received its death 
stroke. 

Then the animal fell, in a somersault, throwing the rider 
some distance, and apparently stunning him, for I did not 
see him move again. Aghast, I turned my head to the 
ground ! 

But only for a minute, for then came the order which 
we had been awaiting, yet dreading. 

“Fall in. Thirteenth!” 

It was Captain Beardsley who spoke, cool and calm as 
ever. 

“Steady now,” he said. “Don’t get excited! Keep 
cool !” 

We were ordered forward, and I thought our time had 


404 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


come. I couldn’t conceive how any man could stand erect 
in that storm of flying missiles, and live a second. 

We arose to our feet and were ordered forward ! 

I can hardly say that I arose to my feet. I distinctly re- 
member crouching down as much as possible, so that I al- 
most crept as we moved forward, perhaps a hundred feet. 
Here we were again halted, and every man dropped pros- 
trate, as if shot, and once more we hugged the ground. 

Here a new danger confronted us. We had before been 
just outside the woods. Now were lying a short distance 
in the forest. The cannon balls and shells were crashing 
through the branches of the trees over our heads, and 
there was a continual fall of the limbs as they were cut off. 
It did not take long to transform those trees into telegraph 
poles, but the rain of the branches while it lasted was al- 
most as dangerous as the duly recognized ammunition of 
the ordnance department. Several of the men were so 
severely hurt thereby that they had to be removed to the 
rear. 

The cannonading by this time had become incessant, up- 
roarious, deafening! The bullets were whistling past us 
more wickedly than ever. The tree limbs were dropping 
among us. There was death staring us in the face, ap- 
parently from every direction. 

In our new position we could see the enemy just beyond 
the Second Massachusetts and Third Wisconsin regiments 
ahead of us. The Union side had slightly the advantage of 
the position, for the ground was gently declining and the 
rebels were somewhat lower than their opponents. But 
the rebels had reached an old stone fence, which they 
were utilizing as a breastwork, and this made chances 
about even. 

As the Confederate host loaded and fired their guns, 
they looked like a lot of devils in a war-dance. The up- 
ward movements of the arms in manipulating the long, 
old-fashioned ramrods, made them look for all the world 
as if they were dancing. 

We could hear the battle cries of the opposing armies — 
the continuous “Hi-yi-yi” of the rebels, and the well- 
known three cheers of the Union men. These were given 
alternately as each side wavered or advanced. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 40$ 

The two battle lines appeared to advance and recede, 
like the waves at the seashore, so that it looked at one mo- 
ment as if the Confederates were retreating and the next 
as if the Union side had been driven back. Each side 
would then cheer when it advanced. 

There is something inborn in human nature to like a 
contest of power. The staidest citizen becomes excited and 
interested in a sparring match, a wrestling bout, a horse 
race, or any sort of a competition. Even in the terrible 
surroundings of that battle, I distinctly remember the ar- 
rival of a new interest in the desperate fight that was 
taking place. 

It is when this moment arrives that the feeling of fear 
Over personal safety in a more or less degree leaves the 
participant. As for myself I will not say that I was not 
still frightened — terribly frightened; but I felt the fear 
not altogether disappearing, but being overshadowed by 
the interest in the contest. 


406 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 

“load and fire at will.” 

The excitement of the battle had effected us all to a 
great extent, as related in the previous chapter. At the 
same time I cannot say that I felt any very intense desire 
to get up and rush forward to be an active participant. 

Not so with William Lambert, one of our Company K 
members. He had become more interested and excited 
than the rest of us. Suddenly jumping to his feet, and 
waving his gun high over his head, he yelled out, in a 
voice that could be plainly heard even in that tremendous 
din : 

“Come on, boys ! Come on ! They’re running ! The 

cowardly are running! Come on! If you’re not all 

cowards, come on !” 

And with that Lambert rushed ahead and was soon in 
the ranks of one of the regiments ahead of us. 

In less than two minutes Lambert came back ! 

This time he did not have his rifle with him. On the 
contrary he was carrying something else in one of his 
hands ! It was the broken remnant of one of his arms ! 
It had been struck by something and literally torn to 
shreds. A strip of skin and the cloth of his coat sleeve 
prevented its falling off altogether, but what there was 
left of it was being carried in the other hand. That 
was the last of brave William Lambert’s fighting. He 
went to the rear, had his arm amputated, went to the hos- 
pital, and was discharged when he got well. 

I have just told how Lambert was holding his wounded 
arm in his well hand as he came back from the battle line. 
That was typical of all wounded soldiers. There is an in- 
voluntary and irresistible desire or inclination to take hold 
of the part that is wounded, as if to carry it, and this habit 
became so recognized by the “boys” that they invariably 
referred to the wounded member as “the baby.” The fact 



“ Come on, boys! Come on! They're running!" 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


407 


that wounded men carried their injured hands and arms 
and heads so carefully and tenderly, naturally created the 
term, “baby.” 

It was recognized by all of us that we would in a very 
short time be precipitated to the very front and become ac- 
tively engaged with the enemy. I involuntarily looked 
around and glanced at such of my companions as were 
near enough to be seen. 

Every countenance bore a peculiar expression. Every 
face was pale, ashen in its pallor, and yet bore a striking 
expression of determination. 

It is said that there is no other place in the world where 
a man gets that expression. It is known as “the frenzy of 
battle.” 

It seems as if a man under these circumstances concen- 
trates all his energies, all his power, mental and physical, 
into one thing, and that is to be brave! He becomes an 
animal. His eyes have the same glare you see in the eyes 
of dogs as they stand ready to spring at each other’s 
throats. It is seen in the eyes of a bull in the fighting 
ring. It is the glassy expressions of death without the 
concomitant of despair. It is the look that means death — 
death to one or the other. I imagine you might see that 
same expression in the faces of two men who are about 
to fight with bowie knives, “till one or both are dead.” 

In poetry and history it is called the look of “the frenzy 
of battle.” 

I turned to the man beside me. It was David Harris. 

“How do you feel, Davy?” I asked. I found that my 
tongue was so hard and dry that I could scarcely articu- 
late. 

“I wish I was feeding the press in the Guardian office,” 
replied he with a sickly smile — such a smile as one might 
expect from a corpse. 

I glanced in the direction of John Ick and Reddy 
Mahar. Both were pale, which was an unusual thing for 
Mahar, for his complexion was like his name — reddy. 

Down on the end of the line 1 saw Corneil Mersereau, 
and wondered if my boots hurt his feet as they did mine. 
But such a thing as blistered feet didn’t worry one at that 
„ moment, I guess. 


408 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I noticed John Stansfield and Henry Speer, lying quiet- 
ly, saying nothing, pale, like the rest, and having a wor- 
ried expression. On the other side of me lay Butterworth, 
my faithful “pard.” 

‘‘How do you like this, Jack?” I asked him. 

“I guess we’re done for, Joe,” he answered, quietly and 
solemnly. 

“I think I am going to be one of the first ones killed,” 
I replied. And I really felt so. 

“I would rather be killed outright than wounded like 
some of these fellows,” said Butterworth. 

And the way some of “these fellows” were wounded 
was frightful. There was passing through our line a per- 
fectly endless stream of reddened, mangled human beings, 
shot in every imaginable part of the body. There seemed 
to be no end of them. It made me wonder how it was that 
there were any of them left at the front to fight. 

Some of our men had been detailed to carry the worst 
wounded to the rear. One of these was Jimmy Post. As 
we were talking, Post and another man came along with 
a helplessly wounded man in a blanket, which they were 
carrying with the ends over their shoulders. The wounded 
man sank the blanket down till it looked like a bag. 

“Whom have you got there?” I asked. 

“Some poor devil,” replied Jimmy. “I don’t know 
whether he is dead or alive. But I am going to take him 
back to the doctor anyhow.” 

I plainly remember how Jimmy Post looked on that oc- 
casion. He was naturally very ruddy, with a face covered 
with freckles; but he was then so pale that it seemed as 
if nothing but the freckles could be seen. 

Perhaps the terrific noises of the battle prevented one 
from hearing little things, and maybe that is the reason 
why I failed to hear much from the wounded men. The 
soldiers had so nerved themselves up, as it were, that they 
were in a condition to stand terrible pain without com- 
plaining. Horribly wounded men made no sign whatever 
of being in agony. Those who were comparatively slightly 
wounded seemed to be actually laughing. The more seri- 
ously hurt perhaps moaned and groaned, but the outcry 
then and there was not what would have been expected. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


409 


When a man was shot through the abdomen, it seemed 
to be excruciatingly painful, and he would shriek, as he 
writhed and rolled on the ground, like a decapitated 
chicken. But I am inclined to think that in other cases 
the victim was stunned, so that there was comparatively 
little pain at the start, and consequently none of those 
demonstrations of agony that might be expected. It is un- 
questionably the fact that in civil life, perhaps because it is 
less expected, an injured person makes considerably more 
of a demonstration than does a soldier in battle. 

I don’t know how long we remained there in our ad- 
vanced position, waiting for our turn to take the places of 
those actively engaged in the fight. It might have been 
hours, it might have been seconds, so far as our sensations 
were concerned, for there was no thought of time. As a 
matter of fact it could not have been many minutes. Then 
came the long-awaited order : 

“Fall in, Thirteenth ! Forward, march !” 

We marched forward, in battle array. The line was 
wavering and unsteady, but as good as could have been 
expected under the circumstances. As before, I fairly 
crouched on the ground as I walked along, as if desiring 
to present a less surface for a target to be shot at. 

I't was the very worst possible thing for me to have 
done. If a bullet passes through a man (interesting thing 
to talk about, isn’t it?) while he is standing in a natural 
position, the same as though he were lying in his bed, it 
makes it the easier for the surgeon to probe the wound and 
remove the ball. If he is twisted out of shape, the course 
of the bullet is erratic, and to trace the ball the wounded 
man would have to put himself in precisely the same shape 
he was at the moment he was wounded, and this of course 
would be a difficult thing to do. 

But I must confess that I “scrouged” a good deal, and 
tried to contract my body into the smallest possible com- 
pass. And no wonder, for we were getting into the thick 
of the fray, and the bullets were whistling past us more 
wickedly than ever. 

We had, in obedience to orders, removed the bayonets 
from our rifles, so that they could be loaded the more 
handily, and opened the lids of the boxes containing our 


4io 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


cartridges and percussion caps. We were ready for the 
fight. 

A strange feeling began to come over me. The feeling 
of fear was vanishing. As if by magic the strength ap- 
peared to come to my legs again, and they no longer shook 
and trembled. I suddenly became utterly oblivious to per- 
sonal safety, and I straightened myself up as stiffly as if 
I were on dress parade. 

For an instant, the briefest sort of an instant, there 
flashed through my mind the leading events of my past 
life, and they as suddenly disappeared. Everything was 
forgotten in the excitement — the fighting excitement of 
the moment. I was possessed by a sudden and blood- 
thirsty desire to kill every gray-backed rebel that I saw 
dancing not the distance of a city block in front of me. 

I have often heard old soldiers tell of this feeling. 
While all honest men will declare that at the commence- 
ment of a battle, or while waiting for their turn to become 
engaged, they are frightened out of their five senses, yet 
when they actually get into the fight all this disappears. I 
never believed it, but it turned out to be true in my case 
as in others. Every trace of fear and apprehension disap- 
peared, and for the time being I was utterly oblivious to 
any feeling of danger. 

Slowly, steadily we moved forward. 

“Don’t shoot till you receive the order,” said Captain 
Beardsley, behind us, in that calm voice of his — a voice 
that seemed to inspire us all with confidence and fearless- 
ness. 

This made me wonder. We were close enough to the 
enemy to shoot. We could almost “see the whites of their 
eyes,” to use a revolutionary simile. Every shot would 
perhaps have taken effect, but still the order was not to 
shoot till we received the order. A few more excited sol- 
diers could not restrain themselves and a shot was heard 
here and there, but as a general rule the men faithfully 
obeyed their instructions about firing. 

The men in our ranks began to fall. I remember plainly 
the case of Silas Abbott, who was immediately beside me. 
He was shot through the abdomen. He fell on the ground 
before me, rolled in the dry leaves of the forest, twisted 
and turned, and contorted his convulsed body in a manner 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


411 

that showed he was suffering exquisite torture. Poor fel- 
low ! He died a few days later from the effects of that 
wound. 

But it did not seem to affect me very much then and 
there. My sensibilities and feelings appeared to have be- 
come blunted. I cared for nothing. 

I felt a sting in the calf of my leg, and glancing down 
saw the blood coming from the bottom of my trousers. 
But it didn’t hurt. In fact the only inconvenience was in 
having my leg wet, and it was warm. The warmth of my 
blood appeared to have no more effect than if it had been 
a cup of warm coffee that had been spilled on the inside of 
my pantaloons. 

I was too much excited to care for that. I had made 
up my mind to stick to my place until I was disabled. 

Another bullet scraped along my side. I plainly felt that 
and it hurt a little, but still I had no intention of retiring 
from the field — as some of them perhaps would have done 
under the circumstances. 

Still the men kept falling around me. And still the order 
was repeated not to fire till we had received the order. 

I felt something trickling down my face. 

“Joe, are you wounded?’’ asked little William J. Post, 
who stood at my side. 

I lifted my cap and brushed my hand over the top of my 
head. When I looked at my hand it was covered with 
blood. But I never would have known that I was hurt had 
it not been for the blood. There was not the slightest pain. 
It turned out only to be a scalp wound. 

The reader will perhaps think that the author was get- 
ting peppered pretty well about this time, and it is the 
truth. The writer was wounded in six different places in 
that battle, and some of the wounds subsequently turned 
out to be quite painful. Two of the wounds, however, hurt 
so little at the start that they were actually not discovered 
till the victim had an opportunity to undress. That was in 
the hospital. But at last the order came to fire. 

We were close upon the enemy. We could almost dis- 
tinguish their countenances. Perhaps the distance was be- 
tween one and two hundred yards. 

Then came Captain Beardsley’s order — 

“Attention, Thirteenth ! Load and fire at will !” 


412 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

WOUNDED. 

The order to “Load and fire at will ! ,, meant for us to 
load and shoot our guns as fast as we could, and pepper 
away at the enemy continuously, without further orders. 

My rifle was already loaded, as were most of the others, 
and the first salute the rebels received from the Thirteenth 
might appropriately be called a volley. As soon as possible 
after firing I looked in the direction of the enemy, and it 
seemed to me as if the number was smaller already ! Of 
course this might have been mere imagination. 

I continued to load and shoot as fast as I could. I re- 
member Lieutenant Wells, who was in command of Com- 
pany K, and who was stationed immediately behind me, 
cried out : 

“Don’t shoot too high. Aim low. Aim at their knees 
and you will hit them.” 

This was a common order. In the act of aiming and 
firing, the pull on the trigger or something else would raise 
the muzzle of the gun, so that the bullet would pass over 
the heads of the men aimed at. It is estimated that this 
peculiarity is the reason that such a comparatively small 
number of men were killed in battle. The bullets aimed 
at them went over their heads. 

But by aiming at the knees of the enemy, the bullet 
would go about right to hit them somewhere in the upper 
part of the body. Of course, there was more or less lateral 
variation in the course of the bullets, but that made less 
difference, for as the soldiers on the other side stood in a 
row, if one of them was not hit, the next one to him 
might not escape. 

As said, I continued to pepper away. I loaded and fired 
my rifle as fast as I could do it. It took some time to 
load the old-fashioned muzzle-loading muskets, for there 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


413 


was the cartridge to tear open with the teeth, and it had 
to be rammed down home with the ramrod, the percussion 
cap had to be placed on the nipple, and lots of other things 
attended to, taking perhaps altogether a minute, maybe two 
minutes, for each shot. How different nowadays with 
the breech-loading, ready-made cartridge guns, with 
which all that is necessary is to raise and lower a lever. 

Phew, but it was hot work ! The perspiration streamed 
from every pore. The saltpeter in the powder of the cart- 
ridges got into one’s mouth, making him terribly thirsty. 
The men wiped the sweat from their foreheads with their 
powder-stained hands, which they smeared over their 
faces till they looked like the begrimed stokers of an 
Atlantic liner. 

Pretty soon my gun began to get very hot. It was so 
hot that I could hardly handle it, and I had to take hold 
of the wooden part of the stock under the barrel. Then 
it began to expand so that the bullets would hardly go into 
the bore. One would naturally think that when the barrel 
of a gun expands from the heat it would make the hole 
bigger, but the contrary is the case. The metal expands 
on the inside of the bore and makes the hole smaller. I 
followed the example of some of the other fellows and 
jammed the bullet in by putting the end of the ramrod 
against a tree — for be it remembered we were fighting 
now in a thick woods. 

The fact that the men were falling on all sides of me 
seemed to make no difference what happened. All that 
possessed me was an ardent desire to do my part in killing 
the rebels in front of me, and there is not the slightest 
doubt that some of them were laid low by the bullets that 
came from my gun, for I took deliberate aim every time. 

The Thirteenth, and other regiments in the same line of 
battle, seemed to waver forward and backward. The 
rebels would apparently retreat, when we would advance. 
Then the enemy would appear to come nearer and we 
would fall back again. And so it went, back and forth, 
so that the effect was to preserve about the same distance 
between the two contending sides throughout. 

As the men fell out of the ranks, either from being 
killed or wounded, we were ordered to “close in on the 


414 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


colors.” That meant for the line to be closed in and the 
gaps filled up as fast as the men fell out. When the bat- 
tle began I was somewhere about two hundred men from 
the flags. The last that I remember looking at them, there 
were not over fifteen or twenty men between where I 
stood and the colors. That shows the way the Thirteenth 
was being mowed down ! 

Several times I saw the colors drop as the color-bearers 
were disabled, only to be immediately picked up by some 
survivor. Several times the right and left general guides 
were felled, and the little flags they carried were seen to 
fall, but they immediately reappeared. Once when the 
left general guide colors fell they were being borne by my 
comrade, Cornelius Mersereau, the man who wore my 
new boots. He was fatally wounded. 

The first man I saw hit in Company K was Llewellyn 
J. T. Probert, who was shot dead. Directly Corporal 
Henry Speer dropped out. Then in turn followed Isaac 
Clark, William Freeland, Alexander Kidd, Francis More, 
John J. Nield, William J. Post, James W. Vanderbeck, 
Stephen Carlough and others. These were only members 
of Company K. The other companies were suffering 
equally, if not even worse. 

Altogether that morning the Thirteenth Regiment lost 
eighteen killed, and eighty-nine wounded, including seven 
commissioned officers. 

I had fired perhaps twenty or twenty-five shots, when 
suddenly — 

“Bing!” 

I thought that somebody had hit me in the hand with 
a stone. It felt exactly as if it was a blow from a small 
stone thrown from the other side of the street. 

I did not think much of it, for the moment, but when 
I tried to lift my gun to fire another shot, I found that 
my hand was disabled, and looking at it, saw that it was 
covered with blood. 

The little finger was torn to pieces and the side of my 
hand shot away. What was left of the little finger was 
pulled over the back of the hand by the tendons. I could 
not move a single finger. I was disabled ! 

I remember carefully leaning my gun against a tree. 



“ But I’m wounded, Heber,” holding up my bloody hand. 


Page 415 


— ■ | 





































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


415 


That was the last I ever saw of the old rifle that I had 
carried so far, that I had so often cleaned and polished, 
and that, on the march, at times seemed to weigh at least 
a ton. 

I turned to leave the ranks, as was the right thing 
for a wounded soldier to do, when Lieutenant Wells gave 
me a whack on the back with the flat side of his sword. 

“Get back into the ranks,” he cried. He thought that 
I was skulking or had been seized with one of those panics 
that frequently attack soldiers under such conditions. 

“But I’m wounded, Heber,” holding up my bloody hand. 

“Oh, all right, then,” he said. “Get back to a doctor as 
soon as you can.” 

Just then Lieutenant Wells raised his sword aloft with a 
sort of hurrah, and while I looked I saw that sword fly 
from his grasp and go spinning through the air perhaps 
fifteen or twenty feet. It had been struck by a bullet or 
something and knocked out of the lieutenant’s hand. 

And the same bullet took Wells’ first finger along with 
the sword. 

Heber looked at his hand a moment, went calmly over 
and got his sword, and then joined me in the retreat for 
the rear, on our mutual search for a surgeon to attend to 
our respective hurts. 

On going back to the rear we had to pass down the side 
of one hill and up another, and as we ascended the latter 
we went through what might be termed a veritable shower 
of lead. Bullets fairly rained around us. We could see 
them strike the sod and tear up the dirt, causing a puff of 
dust to arise. It seemed even hotter here than it was in 
the midst of the battle itself. I have since thought that 
it was here that I received one of those minor wounds 
which I did not discover till later, although, of course, that 
is only conjecture. At all events I had no consciousness 
of being hit by anything at that time. 

We finally got back to a place where we found a yel- 
low flag sticking in the ground, which we recognized as 
the stand of some field surgeon. Here were a lot of other 
wounded men and we had to wait for our turn at the 
“slaughter house,” as John Ick would have called it had he 
been there. 

While waiting I saw something that I never saw be- 


416 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


fore nor afterward. It was a vivandiere. She was rather 
a pretty girl, only for the fact that she was tanned and 
sunburned like a farmer in haying time. She wore a cos- 
tume which was very much like the latest make-up of the 
female bicyclists — a sort of zouave dress, with bloomers 
and leather leggings. 

“Will you have a drink ?” she asked ; and then I noticed 
that she had a little wooden keg hanging at her waist, and 
carried a tin cup in her hand. 

Would I have a drink? Would a duck swim? 

Of course I answered in the affirmative, and she turned 
a little spiggot in the end of the keg and poured me out a 
cup full of — 

It was brandy, and good brandy at that. Never be- 
fore nor afterward did a drink of brandy taste so good. 
I didn’t ask for any “chaser,” for I didn’t want any in 
the first place and there was none to be had if I wanted it ! 

That drink of brandy nerved me up considerably, and 
I was ready for almost any sort of a surgical or other 
operation. 

Heber Wells was by this time having his wound at- 
tended to. The doctor was a young fellow, a mere boy, 
apparently some medical student. Everything was 
pressed into the service in those times that could handle 
a carving knife. 

I watched the operation on Heber with some trepida- 
tion. He winced a little, but did not complain. 

“Does it hurt much ?” I asked, very much interested. 

“No,” he replied. “It’s nothing more than a snip of 
the scissors.” When Heber got finished up, he bade me 
good-by, saying that he would not wait, and the young 
doctor turned to me. 

“Come, it’s your turn/’ said he. 

I held my hand, and he examined it curiously. Then 
he stooped down and picked a stout twig. 

“Here,” said he, “hold this between your teeth.” 

“What’s that for?” I asked. 

“Something for you to bite on,” he replied, coolly. 
“This is going to hurt you a little and you don’t want to 
break you teeth, do you ?” 

Then he took my hand in one of his hands, and a blood- 
stained knife in the other! 



“ Will you have a drink ?” she asked 


Page 416 




























































































































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


4i7 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

“for the love of god, shoot me.” 

The man who undertook to amputate my finger and 
patch up my mangled hand was a butcher, if there ever 
was one in the world. He did not know any more about 
surgery than a three-year-old child. There were so many 
wounded men to be attended to there, however, that they 
had pressed into the service everybody who knew enough 
to handle a penknife, and the fellow who got hold of me 
must have been either a medical cadet or a hostler. 

He went at me as if he was going to carve a piece of 
mutton chop — perhaps a pork chop might make a more 
appropriate simile, eh? He cut and sliced and mutilated 
my hand in the most horrible manner, and when he got 
to the bone he produced a pair of nippers similar to those 
used by the electricians ©f the present day to cut small 
wires, and with that he nipped off the broken bones of my 
finger and hand that protruded from the flesh. 

It was well that he had given me the twig to bite upon, 
or I should certainly have broken my teeth, for I chewed 
that thick stick into mince. The recommendation to hold 
that twig between my teeth was about the only degree of 
intelligence manifested by that amateur human butcher. 

When he had got through with having all the fun he 
wanted out of me, he turned me over to a still less ex- 
perienced young man to bandage up the wound, and that 
was done in a bundle so large that it looked as if I had 
on a big white boxing-glove. I cannot describe how 
much that little operation pained me. I did not make any 
outward demonstration, but it was all that I could do to 
keep from crying out loud. I took satisfaction out of the 
stick between my teeth. 

While I was there the wounded were being taken past 
in a perpetual string, some being carried by the arms 


418 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


and legs, others on stretchers, and still more being sup- 
ported between two comrades. Among these were many 
of the members of the Thirteenth Regiment, and some 
of them were terribly wounded. 

I remember seeing Adjutant Thomas B. Smith, who 
was badly hurt somewhere about the body. Then they 
brought along Lieutenant George G. Whitfield, of Com- 
pany A, who was horribly wounded on the head. He 
was on a stretcher, and his head seemed one mass of gore, 
and he writhed around on the stretcher in a way that 
made one’s blood run cold. Poor fellow, he died a couple 
of days later. 

Pretty soon I saw some men assisting from the field a 
man from Company C, whom I recognized as George H. 
Comer. His arm had been so badly wounded that it 
had to be cut off. Then I saw many other acquaintances 
come along, wounded in one way or another. 

Among these I remember George Baitzel, Freeborn 
Garrison, Charles B. Burris, David Burris, Amzi Brown, 
John C. Crawford, Andrew Leise, R. B. Manning, Jacob 
Mickler, William Parker, Gilbert Smith and others. Some 
of these are still living, but others have answered their last 
roll call. 

It would be impossible to state the exact loss of the 
Thirteenth in killed and wounded at the battle of Chan- 
cellorsville. The official number has been given in a pre- 
vious chapter, but it is known that it was considerably 
larger. After every battle there was always a number put 
under the head of “Missing,” and it was never known 
what became of them, and these should perhaps be placed 
in the list of killed. 

On the other hand some of these that were 
“missing” after a battle turned up after many 
years, with a more or less accurate account of their doings. 
There have been many Enoch Arden cases of this nature. 

The “missing” department of the rolls of a regiment 
after a battle is one of the most wonderful and mysterious 
features of a war. 

After having had my wounded hand dressed I started 
to go to the rear. To the rear is a term universally used 
as going in the other direction than the front. It is also 



He went at me as if he were going to carve a piece of mutton chop. 

Page 417 







THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


419 


always supposed that there is a haven of refuge and re- 
treat somewhere in the rear, and that is the objective point 
of all wounded soldiers. There was a perfect procession 
of more or less severely wounded men strolling rearward 
and I joined this parade. 

I passed the old Chancellorsville house, which was Gen- 
eral Hooker’s headquarters, and was an eye-witness to the 
accident that occurred to General Hooker on that morn- 
ing. There have been many versions of the manner in 
which he was wounded, but I can give the facts, for I 
was not far distant from him when it happened. I had 
stopped to look at the old fighting general, whom I recog- 
nized, standing on the porch of the ancient hotel, half- 
leaning against one of the posts or pillars that held up the 
shed over the porch. 

The cannon balls and shells were flying around very 
lively, and one of them struck the post against which the 
general was leaning and broke it into splinters. The 
general naturally fell over and appeared to be stunned. It 
was reported afterward that he was struck by the shell, 
or whatever it was, but this was not the case. When it 
was found that there were no external marks upon him 
and that he did not appear to be dangerously hurt, it was 
reported that he was knocked over by the concussion from 
the passage of the shell. But this is not true, either. He 
simply lost his support and fell over and was injured by 
the fall from the porch. 

Report has it that the general soon revived after the 
application of a dose of good old commissary, and that it 
made him feel so good that he took another and another 
dose, until pretty soon — but this may be a base libel. Like 
Grant, the president perhaps inquired what sort of 
whiskey he drank, so that he might get some of the same 
sort for some of the other generals ! 

Not far from the Chancellorsville house was an im- 
mense barn, which had been turned into a hospital. My 
first idea was to repair to this hospital, which I knew to 
be such from the large yellow flag floating over it. 

Now, in civilized warfare — as if any warfare could be 
called civilized — the hospital flag is presumed to protect 
the building or tent from the fire of the enemy. It is an 


420 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


unwritten law, in the interests of common humanity, that 
hospitals shall be exempt from being shot at. But imag- 
ine my horror to see that the enemy had trained their guns 
on this hospital. 

It could not have been accidentally done. Shell after 
shell poured into the building, almost tearing it to pieces 
in the course of a few moments. The wounded men came 
streaming out, some helping themselves, others on 
stretchers. They were suffering untold agonies from their 
wounds, and many of them were horribly stained with 
their own blood. As they came streaming from the hos- 
pital, the upper part of which had taken fire, it presented 
one of the most horrible scenes that I ever witnessed, and 
never before did I feel so thoroughly mad at the inhuman- 
ity of the gunners who would do such a thing. 

But the shells and the bullets came flying still faster and 
it was getting too hot for me. I concluded to get further 
back, where it was safer. 

Just about this time a remarkable revulsion of feeling 
came over me. From the time I had become actively en- 
gaged in the conflict of the battle, as previously described, 
I had not experienced the slightest emotion of apprehen- 
sion or fear. But suddenly I began to be frightened. In 
fact, I was almost panic-stricken, and my sole desire was to 
reach a place of safety. Now that there was a possibility 
of saving my life, the desire of doing so was all the more 
intensified. I started to run at full speed, and for a little 
distance made good time, till I began to feel some strange 
pain in my legs. 

Upon the top of a hill I saw what looked like a com- 
paratively safe place behind some ammunition wagons, 
caissons and limbers, to which the horses were attached, 
as if ready to move on a minute’s notice. 

Getting down behind these, I pulled off my trousers and 
began to examine my nether extremities. I found my 
legs streaming with blood, and then found the two bullet 
wounds that I had never before suspected. I must have 
received these in the midst of the fight a little while before, 
when I was too much excited to notice “a little thing- like 
that.” * 

While I was at this, there was a tremendous crash and 



Looking upward, I was amazed to see the air filled with flying debris. 

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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


421 


explosion, followed by yells and curses, and a dense cloud 
of smoke arose to the skies. 

Looking upward, I was amazed to see the air filled with 
flying debris , and among the lot I was horrified to see 
human beings and horses mixed with the broken pieces 
of the wagons and timbers. 

Before I could recover my senses there dropped right 
alongside me a human being — or what was left of him ! 

Such a sight! I nearly dropped senseless. It makes 
me shudder to this day when thinking of it. 

Could it be a human being? Could there be any life 
left in that — that thing? 

But it was alive! It spoke! 

“For the love of God,” it said, “for the love of God, 
shoot me! Put me out of my misery!” 


422 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

RETREAT FROM CHAN CELLORSVII^LE. 

“If there is any one near me,” moaned the poor man ; 
“if any one can hear me, let him shoot me I” 

This the poor wretch repeated time and time again. 
His voice was thick and his words could hardly be com- 
prehended, but I understood them. And I confess right 
here that if I had had a gun or pistol I would have done 
as he wished and put him out of his misery. 

A shell had struck one of the caissons and it had ex- 
ploded. That one shot had, as afterward ascertained, 
killed sixteen horses and twelve men, besides wounding 
nearly as many more. One-half of these had been blown 
high into the air, amid a mass of scorching flames from 
the exploding powder. 

The poor fellow before me had gone up in the midst of 
the flame, and the fire had not only burned off every stitch 
of clothing, but had roasted his flesh to a crisp. His hair 
was gone. His eyes were burned out and his ears had 
entirely disappeared. The ends of his fingers were 
roasted off to the very bone. Through one of his knees 
protruded the end of the bone. Such a sickening sight 
was never seen. 

And yet the thing was alive, and not only alive, but 
conscious, and able to pray that some one might put a 
merciful bullet through his heart. I have always regret- 
ted that I was not able to answer that prayer. I do not 
think it would have been wrong to kill a man under such 
circumstances. 

What became of that man I don’t know. I could not 
stand the sight, and ran away as fast as I could, not even 
taking time to put on my trousers, which I had taken off 
to examine my own wounds. With these hanging over 
my arm I scurried down the other side of the hill as fast as 
my legs would carry me, and when I got to a safe place I 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


423 


redressed myself. It was many a day before I got the 
horrible sight from my eyes. 

Once more I joined the procession of wounded men, 
and pretty soon came to the river again and crossed on a 
pontoon bridge. 

An army was moving in opposite directions. One was 
the army of wounded men with which I was moving. 
The other was composed of the fresh troops that were 
going forward to relieve those actively engaged in fight- 
ing. 

Right glad was I that I was going the way I was in- 
stead of in the opposite direction. And when I thought 
of the difference I began to feel exhilarated and joyous. 

Gradually a sense of the situation came over me, and it 
grew stronger and stronger as I walked along. 

I began to appreciate what a glorious thing it would be 
to see my name in the papers among the list of wounded. 
Here was unanswerable proof that I had been actively en- 
gaged in a battle. For a time at least there would be no 
more fighting for me. Only an old soldier can appreciate 
what that sensation means. 

Perhaps — and the idea struck me like a flash — perhaps 
I might get a furlough to go home. A furlough ! Could 
it be possible? 

Would I again see Paterson? Was it possible that I 
might go home with my arm in a sling, bearing the hon- 
orable wounds of a soldier who had bravely done his 
duty? 

These sensations are the ecstacy of a soldier’s happi- 
ness, and then I experienced them for the first time. 
What were all the hardships and terrors I had gone 
through now? They all sank into insignificance. All 
that I knew was that there was a chance of my seeing 
home once more, and that for a time I would go into civi- 
lization and be free! 

Free! Yes, that is the word. Service in the army is 
a sort of slavery in one sense, a nightmare, an ever-present 
sense of not being your own master. And the feeling that 
one may be exempt from this slavery, this trammel, or 
whatever it may be called, is a pleasure that can only be 
comprehended by those who have gone through it. 


424 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


I had a long walk that day, and it was a tiresome walk 
for me, for the wounds in my legs pained and weakened 
me. But the mental sensations of getting away from the 
active and horrible front, kept me going and gave me 
strength. 

Somehow or other it got out that the wounded soldiers 
were to repair to Aquia creek, where the general field 
hospitals were located. How far was Aquia creek ? 
“About ten miles,” was the answer. Ten miles — in Vir- 
ginia! We knew what that meant, and made up our 
minds that it was at least twenty. 

But what is twenty miles to a soldier, especially when 
not hampered with the weight of a heavy musket and 
knapsack and accouterments? It was nothing. As a 
matter of fact, however, it was not twenty miles. Six- 
teen was nearer it. 

While we were walking along one side of the river, we 
could see the rising smoke and hear the rattling musketry 
and booming cannon on the other side of the river all the 
way from Chancellorsville to Fredericksburg and below. 

I reached Aquia creek somewhere about dusk, and re- 
porting to an officer was assigned to a straw bed on the 
ground in an immense hospital tent. The conditions were 
not very favorable for sleeping, for the tent, as well as 
many others like it scattered around, was filled with 
wounded men. The wounds, at first comparatively pain- 
less, had by this time begun to inflame, and the men were 
growing restless under the agony. There was a perfect 
chorus of moans and groans, prayers and curses. 

But I was too fatigued from the day’s excitement to 
stay awake and soon fell sound asleep. During the night 
some time I was awakened by the water running through 
the straw on which I lay. I listened and heard the rain 
pattering on the outside of the tent and the wind was 
blowing the canvas in a way that threatened to turn the 
whole hospital upside down. 

A terrible rainstorm had come up during the night. 

It is a singular thing that a heavy rain always follows 
a big battle. It is supposed to be the result of the can- 
nonading. It is upon this theory that the “rainmakers” 
recently made such an ado. I haven’t the slightest doubt 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


425 


that if as much powder were spent in these scientific tests 
as there is consumed in a big battle there would be a 
heavy rain afterward. At all events, I think that history 
will prove that there never yet was a heavy battle that 
was not followed by a big rainstorm. 

That rainstorm, by the way, was one of the causes of 
the failure of the Union troops at Chancellorsville. Gen- 
eral Hooker, in his braggadocio order, had said in effect 
that he had got the enemy in such a position that even the 
Almighty could not save them. That was where he made 
a mistake. He had arranged the details for the battle all 
right and all had been done that human skill could do. 
But the very power that General Hooker had derided frus- 
trated the whole scheme, and turned into a defeat what 
might, but for the storm that heaven brought up, have 
been a glorious victory. 

After I had been wounded the Thirteenth Regiment re- 
mained in the fighting line till their ammunition was com- 
pletely exhausted. The regiment was frightfully reduced 
in numbers, but the men did their duty nobly, and made a 
name for themselves that gained for them the sobriquet 
of “The Fighting Thirteenth !” 

In falling back to a position near the Chancellorsville 
house a number of them were wounded by the storm of 
shells and bullets through which I had passed, as pre- 
viously described. The fighting continued all day, but 
although the Thirteenth was moved hither and thither, it 
did not again become actively engaged. 

The battle was continued on the following morning in a 
desultory sort of a way, but pretty soon the rain began to 
interfere with the operations. The roads and fields be- 
came so deep with mud that the artillery and ammunition 
wagons could not be moved, and the river began to rise so 
rapidly that the current threatened to wash away the pon- 
toon bridges. It was impossible to bring to the front any 
more ammunition or provisions, and a further delay might 
prevent the retreat of the troops to the other side of the 
river. 

So, instead of following up the battle, the army had 
to retreat to the other side of the river to escape being 
hemmed in and cut up completely. This left the field in 


426 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the possession of the enemy practically, although they 
were also cut up too badly to make any effort to follow us. 
The Northern army was in decidedly the best condition, 
and it was one of the greatest mishaps of the war that they 
were not in a position to follow up the enemy and annihi- 
late them then and there, as might unquestionably have 
been done but for the interference of the great storm. 

As it was, the entire army was ordered back to the same 
camps they had occupied before starting out for the Chan- 
cellorsville campaign. 

How different was that backward march from the one 
to the front only a few days before! The roads were 
heavy with mud. The rain came down in torrents, damp- 
ening both the bodies and spirits of the men. There were 
sorrowful hearts in the ranks as the comrades looked 
around and failed to see their former companions. No 
one knew the fate of his comrades, of course. 

What had become of this one and that one, was the 
question that none could answer. They were last seen 
at this place or that place. Some remembered seeing some 
shot, but whether wounded or killed, no one could tell. 
To all intents and purposes all the absentees were killed. 
It took days before the real fate of the missing could be 
ascertained, and never was the fate of some of them dis- 
covered. 

With thinned ranks, downcast, tired out, discouraged, 
what was left of the Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey 
Volunteers filed into the same old camp they had occupied 
at Stafford Court House, and took possession of the same 
old log huts. 

Those who participated in that return said afterward 
that it felt like coming home from a funeral. My faith- 
ful “pard,” John Butterworth, had the whole bunk to 
himself, for I lay under that rain-soaked tent at Aquia 
creek and the report was in the regiment that I had been 
killed. 

Indeed the first papers after the battle had my name 
among the list of the dead, and every once in a while when 
I feel in a peculiarly cheerful mood, and want something 
to amuse me, I get out the old files and read my own 
obituary ! 



The inside of the tent was cold and damp, and it was filled with wounded. 

Page 427 








THE YOU Mg volunteer 


427 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 

HOSPITAL SCENES. 

The time I lay in the rain-soaked hospital tent at Aquia 
creek was about as tough an experience as I had yet 
passed through. It was impossible to go out without 
getting wet to the skin, while the inside of the tent was 
cold and damp, and it was so filled with wounded men 
that there was hardly room to get around. 

The best thing that we could do under these circum- 
stances was to remain in bed, and that is just what the 
most of us did. When I say “bed” of course I mean 
nothing more than a pile of straw on the wet ground 
upon which we lay. 

The wounded men lay in a row along each side of the 
tent, leaving a sort of aisle in the middle through which 
the surgeons and attendants could pass. The wounds 
began to become very painful as the time passed, and 
the groans and moans of the poor victims were unceas- 
ing day and night. Every once in a while the doctors 
would have to amputate a leg or an arm or perform 
some other surgical operation in one end of the tent, and 
that added to our mental torture. Although wounded 
and feverish, the fare that we received was little better 
than the regular army rations out in the field, and tak- 
ing it altogether it was a fearfully uncomfortable and 
painful experience. 

After about three days, however, on a cold and damp 
night, although the rain had stopped, word was passed 
through the tent that a number of us were to be trans- 
ferred to Washington, and I happened to be one of the 
men thus favored. 

We were taken down to the dock and placed on board 
a steamboat. We were laid on the bare deck of the 
steamer, as closely together as we could lie, but it was 


428 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


a dry place, compared with the tent, although very 
draughty. Pretty soon the throbbing of the engines of 
the steamboat commenced. It was welcome music to 
my ears. It was the first sound of civilization. It was 
so different from the taps of the drum, the blast of the 
bugle, the rattle of musketry and the boom of cannon, 
that it sounded like veritable music, and it soon lulled 
me into a sound slumber. 

I never awoke till morning. When I opened my eyes, 
the sun streamed into the windows at the side of the 
boat, and at a distance I could see some buildings. 
Getting up to take a more careful observation my eyes 
were delighted by the familiar sight of the unfinished 
dome of the National Capitol, and the half-completed 
shaft of the Washington monument. 

I was again in Washington. 

We were removed to the various hospitals that had 
been built at the capital. These were simply rough 
barracks built in wings, but commodious enough to ac- 
commodate many thousand wounded men. And from 
the way the wounded men were being taken into them 
it seemed that it would not take long to fill them all up. 
Wounded men arrived by the hundreds, by boat and by 
cars, and then for the first time we began to appreciate 
the vast number of soldiers that had been mutilated in 
the battle of Chancellorsville. 

I was taken to the Lincoln hospital. There was a 
good deal of red tape in the army at all times, and it 
even extended to the operation of assigning wounded 
men to the different hospitals. I remember that it was 
late in the afternoon that I arrived at Lincoln Hospital, 
and it was night before I had been assigned to my par- 
ticular ward and cot. 

My name and regiment and the address of my friends 
at home were written on a piece of paper and stuck at 
the head of my cot on the wall. This was done in the 
case of all the men, and was of course for the purpose of 
identification in case anything happened that rendered 
it necessary to send word home or make a report to the 
regiment. 

A sister of charity, God bless her! — a mere girl at 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


429 


that, who would have been very pretty had she taken 
off her big white bonnet and fixed up her hair a little, 
came to me and calmly told me that she thought I had 
better go to bed. I am inclined to think that if my face 
was not too dirty to show it at the time, I actually 
blushed a little as I politely told her I would retire if 
she could manage to hide herself for a few moments. 
Smilingly she disappeared. 

I proceeded to undress. Then it struck me that this 
was the first time that I undressed to go to bed since I 
enlisted. To tell the truth I felt rather ashamed. A 
soldier in the field never thinks of taking off all his 
clothing to go to bed, and there was a freedom or loose- 
ness about it, if you please, that felt very odd. When 
I opened the bed and saw the clean, white sheets, it 
seemed a sacrilege to muss them up. 

But I hastened into the cot and pulled the clothes up 
around my chin, and oh ! how comfortable it did feel ! 
It was the first time in about nine months that I had 
been undressed and in bed, and the sensation seemed to 
be as strange as if it were the first time I had ever done 
it in my life. 

Pretty soon the sister came along with a glass of 
something and told me to drink it. It was eggnog! 
Yum-yum-yum-yum ! Did ever anything taste so good? 
It was nectar fit for the gods. I kept my lips glued to 
the edge of the glass as long as there was a drop of the 
precious stuff left. Then I felt as if I would like to 
swallow the glass. 

The sister told me to go to sleep, and I think I obeyed 
this instruction in a few moments, for pretty soon the 
warmth of the liquor in the punch began to flow through 
my veins and I think that I never before nor since felt 
so supremely happy or comfortable. 

Some time during the night I was awakened by a 
racket. The ward in which I was located contained a 
number of severely wounded men. The racket was 
caused by the efforts of the attendant to quiet a poor 
fellow who had become delirious. He had had both 
legs amputated just above the knees, and in his delir- 
ium had arisen from his cot and was trying to walk 


430 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


down the aisle on his mutilated stumps ! The effort 
tore the bandages off and the blood flowed on the floor. 

“Get that man quieted at once,” exclaimed one of the 
surgeons, who had hastened out of his office to see 
what was the matter. “If you don’t act quickly he will 
bleed to death.” 

“You’re a liar,” was the surprising answer from the 
wounded man. “You’re a liar! You can’t kill Jim 

Murphy. There isn’t a rebel in the country that 

could kill Jim Murphy.” 

“But you’ll bleed to death if you don’t remain quiet 
and let these nurses attend to your bandages,” said the 
surgeon. 

“No, I’ll be if I do,” replied the wounded man. 

“I don’t intend to die, and ye can’t kill me. Jim Mur- 
phy’s too tough for ye all !” 

They got the plucky fellow back into his cot and tied 
him in, much to his disgust. There were other rackets 
in progress down the ward, for the wounds had begun 
to make the men feverish generally. I will only refer 
to one case as a contrast with that of “Jim Murphy.” 
It was a fellow who had been shot through the thigh, 
and although it was a painful injury it was by no means 
dangerous. But the man was frightened half to death 
and had made up his mind to die anyway. 

“I tell you, doctor,” said he, plaintively, “I am going 
to die. I will never get over this. I have received a 
mortal wound.” 

“Oh, nonsense,” replied the doctor. “You are not 
fatally hurt by any means. You are not half as badly 
wounded as this fellow with both legs off, and he says 
that they can’t kill him.” 

“No, you spalpeen,” replied the legless man, “they 
can’t kill me. Don’t ye be a baby. Brace up and don’t 
die to satisfy the spalpeens.” 

But this did not pacify the other. The trivially 
wounded man lost his heart and made up his mind 
that he was going to die, and he did. He died that 
very night, and the doctors said that it was not from the 
wound at all, but from the fact that the fellow had lost 
his nerve and given up, and all the doctors on the face 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 43 i 

of the earth could not save a man under such circum- 
stances. 

The legless man, true to his word, kept up his pluck 
and got well, and for all that I know he is living yet. 
Possibly he may be one of those who are scuffling along 
on the New York sidewalks, picking up a handsome 
living from charitably disposed people. 

I simply relate this instance to illustrate a matter that 
had many parallels during the war. A grievously 
wounded man would invariably recover if he kept up 
his pluck and his nerve, while many a man, whose 
wounds should not have caused his death, died, simply 
because he gave up. The influence of the mind over the 
body was never more strongly shown than in such cases 
as these, and there is not an old army surgeon who could 
not relate hundreds of similar instances. 

In a day or so my wound began to pain me fearfully, 
and swelled bigger and bigger till it became as large as 
my head. I grew feverish and somewhat delirious. The 
gentle sister who waited on me brought me many milk 
punches and cup custards, and if she had been my blood 
sister she could not have manifested greater solicitude for 
my welfare. My swollen hand was placed in an oil-silk 
bag and filled with ice, so that it was practically frozen. 

But no use. Gangrene had set in, and old soldiers 
know what that means. One morning the doctor came 
to me and after examining my hand, shook his head and 
gravely remarked : 

“It’s no use, my boy ; that hand has got to come off if 
you want to live.” 

If the surgeon had given me a blow on the head with a 
sledgehammer I could not have received a greater shock. 


43 2 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

A SISTER OF CHARITY. 

When the surgeon told me that he would have to cut 
off my hand to save my life, it was, as stated, a terrible 
shock. I had lain there and suffered, with my swollen 
arm incased in ice, frozen stiff and strapped to a chair 
beside my cot, and suffered untold tortures, but had not 
made a murmur. But the mental suffering occasioned 
by the startling information that I would have to go 
through the world for the rest of my life with only one 
hand was a thousand times worse than anything that I 
had yet experienced. 

As soon as I could recover my voice, I asked : 

“Is there no hope of saving it, doctor? The loss of 
that hand would ruin me. It would make it impossi- 
ble for me to ever work again at my trade.” 

“What is your trade?” he asked. 

“A printer.” 

“Hump ! That’s bad. I’ll see what can be done about 
it this afternoon.” 

“This afternoon?” I asked. It seemed a dreadfully 
short notice. 

“Yes, my boy,” answered the surgeon, kindly; “what- 
ever is done must be done without further delay.” 

I shuddered at the idea of having my hand amputated, 
even though it was the left hand. I reflected how I would 
look going through life with one hand. How would I 
ever earn my living? I couldn’t hold a composing stick 
and set type with one hand. Then I suddenly remembered 
my fiddle. How could I play the violin with one hand — 
and that instrument was one of the joys of my life. I am 
not saying how much joy it must have been to those who 
were compelled to listen to my practicing ! 

Then the good sister came along with another milk 
punch. It was a dandy. I imagined it must have been 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


433 


three-quarters brandy. In a few moments I felt so 
good that I didn’t care if they cut off both hands and 
threw in one leg for good measure ! I was soon sleeping 
the sleep of the just and virtuous, as soundly as if I had 
been given a dose of knock-out drops. 

Some time during the afternoon I was awakened by the 
surgeon’s assistant, who had come to take me to the 
operating room at the end of the ward. Now the surgeons 
in the hospital in war times were no prohibitionists. They 
believed in the efficacy of good old whiskey. And that it 
served a good purpose there can be no question. 

The first thing the doctor did, therefore, was to pour 
out for me a regular old-fashioned bumper of Bourbon, 
a brimming glassful that would have made Weary 
Waggles’ eyes glisten with joy. I swallowed it, and sent 
a chaser after it, and in a few moments felt as if I didn’t 
care for all the surgeons’ knives in the world. 

The surgeon, and, by the way, he was a Dr. Brown, of 
Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and as expert a surgeon as ever 
lived, besides being a kind-hearted and humane gentle- 
man, unwrapped the bandages off my swollen hand and 
arm and critically examined the wound. 

“What do you think of it, doctor?” I asked, somewhat 
nervously. 

“I may save the hand yet,” replied the surgeon. “I 
can’t tell, however, till I cut into it a little to see how far 
the gangrene has extended.” 

“Try and save it if you can,” said I, mournfully. I 
had a terrible dread of losing the hand. Perhaps in the 
first excitement of the battle I would not have thought 
so much about it, but now that I had time to reflect it was 
different. And I had had an opportunity to notice the crip- 
pled and helpless condition of the other fellows who had 
been forced to part with that very necessary part of the 
human anatomy. 

“Better try a little more of this, my boy,” said the 
doctor, pouring me out another generous bumper of the 
whiskey. 

It struck me that the surgeon was determined that I 
should get gloriously drunk. But I didn’t care. If there 
ever was a time when I felt like getting a first-class jag, 


434 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


as it is called nowadays, it was just then and there. This, 
however, was not Dr. Brown’s intention, as I discovered 
afterward. My system was run down, and it was neces- 
sary that I should be stimulated to go through with the 
operation. 

I was strapped on the top of the operating table. The 
good sister stood at my side, holding a basin of water 
and a sponge. The surgeon’s assistant got a sponge sat- 
urated with chloroform. It was the first time I had ever 
taken an anaesthetic. 

A smothering sensation ! A brief struggle for air. A 
feeling that I was going up, up, up ! . . . 

The next moment — so it seemed — I found myself in 
the grasp of three men. The table was upset, the sister, 
picking herself up from the floor with her face covered 
with blood and her usually white and spotless bonnet 
crumpled out of shape, and I struggling there with my 
wounded hand a mass of blood and gore, with the bandage 
knocked off. 

I was completely bewildered. And what struck me 
the more strangely was the fact that everybody was laugh- 
ing. Even the sister was smiling as she picked herself 
up from the floor. Dr. Brown said it was the “liveliest 
time he had since the war began.” 

It must have been, judging from my appearance and 
the looks of things about me ! 

It seems that the combined effects of the whiskey and 
the chloroform had been too rich for my blood. As ex- 
plained afterward to me, after the operation had been 
performed, and I was reviving from the effects of the 
anaesthetic, I had become delirious, and the first thing 
I had done had been to knock down the sister of charity 
with a blow of my wounded fist. This had torn off the 
bandages. The upsetting of the things in the little oper- 
ating room was caused by the struggle the doctor and his 
attendants had in subduing me. 

I knew nothing of what had occurred, of course. 
When I looked at my hand and saw that it was there yet, 
I imagined that the operation had not yet been com- 
menced, and asked the doctor what was the matter that it 
had not been done? 



1 was strapped on the top of the operating table. The good sister stood 
by my side, holding a basin of water and a sponge. 


Page 434 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


435 


“It’s done,” replied Dr. Brown. “The operation is 
finished ” 

“But the hand’s still there?” I asked, glancing at the 
bloody looking object. 

“Yes,” replied he. “I think we can save it. It is 
not so bad as we supposed. You will find that it is 
narrower than it was. I took out the bone on the side, 
below the base of the little finger, and got the end of 
the gangrene. You will be all right yet. Your hand 
will be saved.” 

“Thank God!” I exclaimed, fervently and thankfully. 
“Doctor, I’ll never forget you for this.” 

“But you will have to have it fixed over again,” said 
he. “You have knocked it all to pieces. The stitches 
have come out and I will have to sew it over again. Do 
you think you can stand that, or will I give you another 
dose of chloroform?” 

“Oh, I can stand that, I guess,” I replied. “No more 
chloroform for me, if you please. I think too much of 
the sister here to run the risk again.” 

The sister smiled. “Oh, that was nothing,” she said 
pleasantly. 

So the doctor proceeded to “sew me up.” There 
were only three or four stitches, but fury ! didn’t it hurt ! 
Those who have undergone surgical operations all agree 
that the most painful part of it is the sticking through 
of the needle and drawing through the silken thread. 
It is the most sensitive part of the body, the skin. But 
I got through with it all right. 

Then I began to have an atrocious headache, and felt 
like completely collapsing. The doctor’s suggestion 
that I take another drink of whiskey almost made me 
gag. “No,” I replied; “one drunk a day is enough for 
me.” 

I was put to bed, and pretty soon had a raging fever. 
For two days and nights I lay there on the cot, not 
caring whether I lived or died. The afterclaps of the 
operation were worse than the operation itself, a thou- 
sand times. 

But youth and health will triumph pretty quickly 
with a boy of nineteen years, and I rapidly came to my- 


43 6 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


self again. Then I realized the inestimable service the 
good sister had rendered while I lay so low. She had 
sat by the side of my cot day and night and attended to 
my every want and desire. And anybody who has sat 
by a sick-bed appreciates what that means. 

When I got better the sister did not keep around me 
as much as while I was dangerously feverish. But she 
came now and then, with a glass of eggnog or a cup 
custard or some other dainty, such as they give conva- 
lescents. One night she came through the ward about 
io o’clock. She was on her last errand before retiring, 
and, seeing me awake, stopped, took a seat at the side 
of the cot, and softly asked me how I felt. 

The ward was very quiet. Everybody seemed to be 
asleep ; with the exception of the lonely and half-asleep 
guard at the end of the room, there was no one there 
but the sister. 

Now I had just about fallen half in love with that 
sister! And who would wonder? She was the first 
woman I had spoken to in months. She had treated 
me like a mother, and her kindness had been ceaseless. 
I felt more than grateful. I felt affectionate, as one 
would to his affianced. And as yet not a word had 
passed between us that was not strictly professional, so 
to speak. This time I decided to go a little further. 

"I am glad that you have stopped here to-night,” 
said I. 

“Why?” she asked. 

“Because you have been very kind to me, and I don’t 
know how to thank you.” 

“It is my duty to be kind to these poor fellows,” she 
replied. 

“Yes, but I have been watching pretty closely, and I 
imagine that you have been specially kind to me.” 

The sister dropped her eyes — and blushed. 

Now for a sister of charity to drop her eyes and blush 
is something out of the usual run. Generally they are 
as implacable and emotionless as marble. They are 
trained to be so. But here was an exception. I felt 
encouraged at the sign and proceeded. 

“Sister,” said I, “will you do me a favor?” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


437 


“What is it?” she asked, looking at me wonderingly. 

“Will — will you please take off your big white bon- 
net ?” 

She blushed again. 

“I can’t do that,” she said gently; “it’s against the 
rules.” 

“Oh, never mind the rules,” I said. “Take it off, and 
do me that little favor, won’t you, please ?” 

“I — I ” 

“Oh, please do.” 

She glanced about nervously, hesitated a moment, 
and then, with her face Crimson with color, unfastened 
the broad white strings under her chin, and with a 
graceful movement threw back her bonnet. 

In doing this it got caught in her hair somehow, and 
down to her very waist tumbled a luxurious mass of 
wavy brown tresses. I looked up and saw a vision of 
perfect loveliness ! 


43 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

“CRUSHED AGAIN/' 

“There's many a noble heart under a ragged coat,” 
and there is doubtless many a handsome face mas- 
queraded by an exaggerated and distorted white bonnet 
worn by a sister of charity, but never did I expect to 
find such an object of beauty in the little sister who 
now stood before me in all her loveliness. 

To be sure, I had become acquainted with her gentle 
manner, her soft touch and her soothing voice, but I 
had all along imagined that she was naturally as 
homely as she looked in her solemn garb. Sisters of 
charity all look alike, owing to their peculiar dress, 
which seems specially designed to make them seem un- 
attractive, but in this instance at least I discovered that 
there was beauty behind the plain exterior, and ever 
since when I have met one of them attired in the homely 
garb of the order I have involuntarily wondered how 
the sister would look if she were attired in ordinary 
costume. 

Inasmuch as beauty is the pride of woman, what a 
sacrifice it must be for them to thus bury their charms 
and devote their lives to the mission of benevolence and 
the alleviation of human suffering! When one consid- 
ers these things he must have a still higher regard for 
the self-sacrificing spirit of those who throw aside the 
pleasures of the world and devote themselves to an ex- 
istence of slavery to good work, as it were. 

When I saw the sister standing beside me that night 
in all her loveliness, with her flushed face, and her 
thick tresses hanging down her back, I was speechless 
with amazement. Embarrassed, she proceeded to read- 
just her hair, and as she did so her sleeves slipped back 
to her elbows, displaying an arm that would have set a 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


439 


sculptor wild with enthusiasm. I quickly put out my 
hand to stop her. 

“Don’t put it up, please,” said I. “Let your hair 
remain as it is.” 

“But I must not,” she said. “It is against the rules. 
But,” she added coyly, “why do you ask that?” 

“If you knew the difference it makes,” said I, “if you 
appreciated how beautiful ” 

“Sh,” she interrupted. “You must not talk that way. 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” 

“But I’m not,” I replied. “A young man who 
wouldn’t admire you as you look now ought to be 
ashamed of himself. But no one could help it, I guess.” 

“Sh, you mustn’t,” she repeated. But I noticed that 
she was not in a particular hurry to put up her hair 
again. She dallied in the operation. She was a woman, 
if she was a sister of charity. 

“What is your name, sister?” I asked her. 

“Sister Felicia. You know that.” 

“Yes, I know that. But what is your real name?” 

“It would not be right for me to tell that.” 

“Oh, it wouldn’t do any harm,” I insisted. I reached 
out and took her hand. She did not withdraw it. I 
was making good progress, and my heart went pitty- 
pat. I had fallen in love with the sister. 

“My right name — is — I don’t suppose it will do any 
harm to tell, although it is against the rules — my right 
name is Nellie Carleton.” 

“Where do you live?” I asked her. 

“I shouldn’t answer that, but I will tell you that my 
home is in Philadelphia.” 

“Philadelphia, eh? That’s where the soldiers are al- 
ways so nicely treated. It is the city of Brotherly 
Love. 

“Tell me,” I continued, what made you, such an at- 
tractive girl, perhaps surrounded with everything to 
make life enjoyable, lay aside your toilets and dresses 
of civil life, to put on that homely gown and devote 
yourself for life to such work as this ? It does not seem 
natural.” 

“Excuse me,” she answered. “I haven’t devoted 


440 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


my life to this by any means. I am not a regular sister 
of charity. I have not taken the veil. I can leave 
and return home at any time I desire. I only volun- 
teered, with some other girls, because the government 
wanted nurses. The men are doing their duty, and I 
thought it only right that the women should do their 
part, in the best manner possible, and I could not see 
any better way than to assist in alleviating the suffer- 
ing of the sick and wounded.” 

“And then you are going back home when your serv- 
ices are no longer required?” 

“Certainly. My father is a rich man, and my mother 
is not in good health, and I will return as soon as pos- 
sible to look after my little sisters.” 

“Are they all as pretty as ” 

“Sh,” she interrupted. “No more flattery, please.” 

“I can’t help that, but if you do not like it I will stop.” 

To tell the truth she did not look as if she really 
wanted me to stop. She was a woman ! 

“Nellie,” said I, but she promptly interrupted me : 

“Sister, if you please.” 

“Well, then, sister,” I said, smiling, “why have you 
been so kind to me since I have been here ?” 

“I have tried to be kind to all these poor fellows,” 
she replied. 

“Yes, but I have noticed carefully, and I think you 
have been specially kind to me.’’ 

She blushed deeply. 

“Have I?” she asked quietly. 

“Yes, you have. You know you have been.” She 
seemed embarrassed considerably at this. 

“I don’t know that — that ” 

“It makes no difference,” I insisted. “You have been 
specially kind to me and you have made me feel very 
kind — I trust you will forgive me for saying it, but I 
think you have been almost affectionate in your treat- 
ment and kindness.” 

Her face turned crimson, and she proceeded to put up 
her hair and did not stop till she had pinned it up, and 
took up her ugly bonnet as if to put it on. 

“Don’t put that horrible headgear on just yet,” I 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


441 


said, taking her hand again. “I want to talk a little more 
with you.” 

“Then don’t talk any more nonsense, or I will go away,” 
she said coquettishly, just as any girl would have done. 
She was a woman ! 

I talked of various things, about her present life and 
the terrible strain it must be on a girl accustomed to ease 
and luxury, and complimented her on her noble conduct 
in giving her services to the good work in the manner 
she was doing, and all that. This seemed to please her 
and to re-establish the friendly relations between us. Fi- 
nally I got back on the old strain again. 

“Nellie,” said I, once more — and this time she did not 
interrupt, to my great joy — “Nellie, why have you been 
specially kind and attentive to me?” 

“Because — because ” she stammered, hesitatingly. 

“Well, ‘because why?’ ” I asked her. 

“Because — because I was attracted somehow to you the 
first time I saw you.” 

No girl could have made this winsome remark in a 
prettier way. I thought that every nerve in my body was 
afire with ecstasy. I was surely in love with her. I felt 
that she must have a warm feeling toward me. 

“Why, Nellie, why did you feel that way?” I asked her, 
giving her hand a little — just a little squeeze. 

“I have a brother in the army somewhere,” she said. 

A brother! What the dickens did I care if she had a 
dozen brothers in the army? What had that to do with 
me? 

“Well ?” said I, hardly knowing what was coming, and 
yet involuntarily suspicious. 

“And,” she continued, “my brother bears a remarkable 
likeness to you. When I first saw you I thought it was 
he, and my heart went into my throat.” 

“And when you found your mistake, you took me for a 
substitute, I suppose?” 

“Hardly that,” she replied, blushingly. “But I thought 
perhaps my brother might some time be in the same situa- 
tion as you are, and I hoped that some other sister would 
be kind to him. I treated you as I wished my brother to 
be treated should he be wounded.” 


442 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


“And I suppose when you saw a fellow that looked 
like your brother you thought you would be specially kind 
to him?” 

“Yes, that’s it.” 

“You love your brother, don’t you, Nellie?” 

“Why, of course I do.” 

“And do you think you could love the fellow who looks 
like your brother?” 

“Sir !” she exclaimed, pulling her hand from mine and 
drawing back. 

“Well, I said it,” said I, “and I repeat it. Do you 
think you could love me?” 

“What do you mean, sir, by such talk as that?” 

I immediately saw that I had put my foot in it — both 
feet, in fact ! But I wasn’t the fellow to back down in the 
face of the enemy — particularly if the enemy be one of the 
prettiest girls the Lord ever made. 

“There’s no use beating about the bush,” I said. “I 
have said what I mean and I will stick to it. You know 
that I love you, and I simply wanted to know if you loved 
me. It was only a perfectly natural question to ask, after 
what we have said.” 

“I have made a mistake,” she replied, half-sorrowfully, 
I thought. “I have let this interview go entirely too far. 
You have misconstrued all I have said and done.” 

“Then you do not care for me, after all ?” 

“Care for you !” she exclaimed, and here she was more 
womanlike than ever. “Why, you are the biggest fool I 
ever saw. Care for you? Of course not! I only 
thought I saw a resemblance to my brother, and that made 
me feel like taking special care of you while you were too 
feeble to take care of yourself.” 

“Then what you did was not for me, but for your 
brother?” I asked, lugubriously. 

“That’s it exactly,” she replied. “Good evening !” 

Crushed again ! 

As I caught the last glimpse of the pretty sister’s gray 
skirt as it swished around the screen at the end of the 
ward, I was conscious of three separate and distinct sen- 
sations. 

One was a sense of intense disappointment — a sense of 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


443 


having lost something on which I had fondly set my heart. 

The next sensation was that I had made a great mis- 
take — that I had been making a fool of myself. I had 
been entirely too precipitous. A girl’s heart isn’t captured 
in such a sudden manner as that. But I was young and 
inexperienced then ! I learned more about ‘‘woman and 
her ways” later in life. 

But, as intimated, there was a third sensation. It was 
this : It was that if I should ever meet that homely 
brother of the sister’s — the fellow that looked like me — I 
would kill him on sight. 

The idea of falling in love with a girl who was kind 
to you simply because you resembled her big fool of a 
gawky brother ! It was too much ! One of us must die ! 

But fortunately for that homely brother of hers he has 
always managed to keep out of my way, and has thus 
escaped with his miserable life. 

I did not see much of the sister the next morning. 
She passed through the ward a number of times, and 
always passed by without stopping or recognizing me. 
Toward noon she came to the side of my cot and calmly 
asked if I wanted anything. 

I looked up into her face, but her eyes were averted. 
She acted as if she had never seen me before in my life. 
She was a woman ! 

Pretty soon I became somewhat convalescent and was 
able to be up and around, with my arm in a sling, and 
could help myself at meals, so that it was not necessary 
that I should be waited upon. Necessarily I met the sister 
daily and several times a day, but nothing except the most 
commonplace remarks ever passed between us. 

We were apparently perfect strangers. I thought at 
times that she would make some reference to the interview 
that night, but she did not refer to it, and I was afraid to, 
for fear of some sort of an explosion. 

Thus matters went on for three or four weeks, till one 
morning a number of us were notified that we were to be 
removed to a Northern hospital. Another big battle was 
expected, and all the convalescents were to be removed to 
make room for a fresh batch of mangled human beings 
from another bloody field of conflict. 


444 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


It was one afternoon about 3 o’clock that we were told 
to get ready, and an hour later the “invalid squad” was 
ordered in line to proceed to the depot. I was not at all 
averse to leaving Washington, but I still had a desire to 
have another word with Nellie, the pretty sister of charity. 

The opportunity presented itself at the last moment, 
just as I was gathering up my few things from the side 
of the cot on which I had passed so many painful — and 
so many happy hours, it must be confessed. 

The sister came to me to bid me good-by. 

“So you are going away,” said she. I thought that I 
noticed a tinge of regret in the inflection of her voice. 

“Yes, we are going somewhere up North. Wilming- 
ton, I hear. Are you sorry to have me leave ?” 

The sister flushed a little, but replied coolly : 

“Of course I am sorry. It is always sorrowful to part 
with friends.’’ 

“Then I am a friend of yours?” 

“Of course. I am a friend of all the soldiers.” 

“That is altogether too general,” said I. “Can’t you 
say that you are especially sorry to part with me ?” 

“Well, yes, as I told you before, you look so much like 
my brother that I shall miss you more than some of the 
others.” 

Confound that brother again. 

‘.‘Then you only care for me because I resemble your 
brother?” 

“I told you that before.” 

“Yes, I know you did. But I wish that you cared for 
me for myself.” 

“There you go again. You men are such fools.” 

“Thanks. You are complimentary. But really, Nel- 
lie ” 

“Sister, please.” 

“Well, then, sister, do you think we shall ever meet 
again ? Could you consent to correspond with me ?” 

“Why can’t you be sensible?” she asked, in reply. 
“What is the sense of all this ridiculous talk? You know 
we are not likely ever to meet again. You know that our 
lives are to be apart, and that after you have gone you will 
forget me entirely or only remember me occasionally as 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


445 


the sister of charity that took care of you while you were 
wounded and helpless.” 

“No, you are mistaken in that,” I replied. “I shall 
always remember you as Nellie, and not as the sister of 
charity.” 

“And I shall always remember you,” she said, “as a 
great foolish boy, but,” she smilingly added, “I hope that 
you will be successful and have good luck and be 
happy ” 

“How can I be happy without you to ” 

“Oh, you get out, you big goose,” she said, laughing 
outright. “Good-by.” 

And then she turned away, and I had to fall in line, 
and was a moment later on the way to the depot with my 
companions. I turned and saw the sister standing on the 
steps of the hospital entrance, with a quizzical smile on her 
face, and so I remember her to this day, for I have never 
seen her nor heard from her since. 

That was the first time I ever tried to make love to a 
sister of charity, and it was the last. It wasn’t a success. 
But then, as she said herself, she was not a regular sister 
of charity. 

From lovemaking, however, I was suddenly precipi- 
tated into the stern realities of soldier life. We were 
marched up through the dusty streets of Washington — 
they were not the magnificent streets they are now by any 
means — and finally reached the depot. It was late in the 
afternoon. The miserable depot was crowded with 
wounded soldiers, northward bound. 

Of course there was no train ready for us to take. 
There never was. Here were hundreds of wounded and 
feeble soldiers, waiting in that stuffy depot, in the hottest 
weather, and it seemed impossible to get even a drink of 
water. We had to remain there all night and till after- 
noon on the following day, and I don’t think I ever put in 
a worse experience. After the luxuries and comforts we 
had enjoyed at the hospital, the contrast was terrible. We 
had some miserable black coffee and some of that tough 
“salt horse” dealt out to us, but none of us had the appe- 
tite to eat such stuff. 

Finally we were embarked. They were not exactly 


446 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


cattle cars, but they were little better. The cars that used 
to be run on the Erie emigrant trains to the West were 
about the sort we had. The ride northward was not alto- 
gether unpleasant, for the breeze that came in through the 
car windows was a decided improvement over the stuffy 
and suffocating air that we had been breathing in that 
miserable depot. 

Just before dusk the train stopped in the depot at Wil- 
mington, Delaware, and we were removed to a hospital 
so finely located, so beautiful, and with such surroundings 
that we thought we had dropped into heaven. 

But of this I will have to wait till the next chapter. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


447 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

IN PHILADELPHIA HOSPITALS. 

As said before, we arrived at the hospital in Wilming- 
ton about dark on a beautiful warm day early in June, 
1863. I don’t remember at this late day what sort of a 
building it was, but I do remember that it was a beautiful 
place. To the best of my recollection it was a church that 
had been temporarily transformed into a hospital. 

In those days everything was utilized for such purposes. 
The number of wounded men and soldiers who had be- 
come sick through the exposures of army life was some- 
thing terrible. Statistics show that ten times as many sol- 
diers are disabled from sickness as from bullets. I have 
given some idea of the immense number of the wounded. 
Add the sick, and the number becomes frightful. 

So everything possible was utilized for the purpose of 
hospital work, even to churches, and if my memory serves 
me right the hospital in Wilmington was an Episcopal 
church that had been turned into a hospital. It was a 
pretty, ivy-clad building of stone, surrounded by large 
shade trees, and the whole atmosphere was cool and pleas- 
ant. It was a great improvement in this respect on the 
rough board arrangement of wards that composed the 
Lincoln Hospital in Washington, which stood 1 out on the 
flats, unprotected from the sun. 

We were assigned to snowy white cots, and given a 
most excellent supper. But what struck us all was the 
number of pretty girls who seemed to have something to 
do with the place. There were no sisters of charity there. 
They were all women in ordinary dress of life, and a large 
majority of them were young ladies. And they were 
young ladies of refinement, of apparently the better walks 
of life. 

During the evening we had a large number of lady 


448 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


visitors, and if all the soldiers felt as I did their hearts 
were beating with admiration. Now note the transition: 

In Virginia the only specimen of women we saw were 
of the commonest class. They were what the darkies used 
to call “the poor white trash.” They were women whose 
surroundings were those of the direst poverty. Their 
dresses, if dresses they could be called, were nothing more 
than old bed quilts sewed together. They were sunburned 
and untidy, and anything but attractive. 

In Washington all the women we saw around the hos- 
pital were dressed as sisters of charity, and although, as 
I have described before, there were some very pretty 
women disguised under that homely dress, yet the eye had 
become accustomed to the somber garb, and women had 
somehow or other become associated with the idea of ex- 
treme plainness and simplicity. 

But in Wilmington ! There we for the first time since 
we left home were surrounded with ladies dressed in fash- 
ionable attire, and the light and bright-colored dresses that 
the ladies of the Southern cities wear in the month of 
June are bewitchingly fascinating. 

White and pink dresses, straw hats trimmed with gay- 
colored ribbons, and all those delicate little nothings that 
go to make up the summer girl, were displayed before us, 
and delighted our hungry eyes. I remember thinking how 
pretty my little sister of charity friend in Washington 
would have looked thus attired, but, truth to tell, I almost 
forgot her in the presence of the handsome young ladies 
that flitted around the hospital ward that evening. 

One of them, an extremely pretty girl of about my own 
age or perhaps a little younger, took a seat by the side of 
my cot, and we had a long and delightful talk. She was 
very friendly and unusually intimate for such a short 
acquaintance, but that was a pleasant way those Wilming- 
ton girls had, and as I looked around I saw that nearly 
every soldier in the hospital was similarly engaged in 
pleasant conversation with one of Wilmington’s fair 
daughters. 

I am rather inclined to think that my particular girl was 
somewhat of a flirt from the way she talked, but she found 
a match in me in that respect, I can assure the reader. 



She was very friendly and unusually intimate for such a short acqua intance. 

Page 448 



















































THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


449 


Before she departed we had become quite chummy. She 
had told me the street and number where she lived, and 
said that she had two other sisters, and they would all 
be glad to have me call on them. I promised to get off 
the following day and call on them, and went to sleep to 
dream of pretty angels in white dresses and pink ribbons 
in their hair. 

But alas! Wilmington was a sort of halfway house, 
a stopping place on the way to Philadelphia, where the 
principal hospitals were located. I did not get to see my 
fair visitor in the morning, after all, for at an early hour 
we were ordered to fall in again, and, to our intense dis- 
gust, we were marched to the depot to take the train for 
Philadelphia. My girl was there, however, to bid us 
good-by. She said it was “really too bad” that we had to 
leave so soon, for she would “dearly have loved” to have 
me call to see her and her sisters. 

I did not care a rap for her sisters, whom I had never 
seen, but I was really sorry that I had not the opportunity 
to accept her invitation, and told her so so warmly that 
she blushed. Just as the conversation was getting pecul- 
iarly interesting we heard the signal to get on the cars, 
and a moment later we were moving out of the depot amid 
enthusiastic cheers on the part of the men and waving of 
handkerchiefs by the ladies. 

Nothing unusual or particularly interesting occurred 
on the ride to Philadelphia. It is only a short distance 
and the trip took but a short time. There were perhaps 
two or three hundred convalescent wounded men in the 
train besides some who were still in a dangerous condition. 
These were taken care of first, and carefully. 

Here is where the beautiful ambularce system of Phila- 
delphia came in useful. I think that I have referred to 
this feature somewhere before. Each engine company 
'was equipped with an ambulance of the most elegant char- 
acter. The exteriors of these vehicles were painted artis- 
tically to represent battle scenes and pathetic war episodes, 
and were of the most gorgeous character. They were 
arranged in, as it were, two stories or shelves, each of 
which would accommodate two soldiers lying flat, on a 
soft springy leathern mattress. These shelves were ar- 


45 ° 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


ranged to let down at the side and make seats for those 
who were able to sit up. I was one of the latter. Eight 
men could ride on the seats. The ambulance was very 
springy and comfortable and the ride to the hospital was 
extremely pleasant. 

The hospital to which we were first taken was at Cherry 
Hill, a Philadelphia suburb, but I don’t remember much 
about that place, for we only remained there for a day or 
so, till we were removed to the central hospital at the 
corner of Broad and Cherry streets. This had been a big 
market or railroad station, I’ve forgotten which, and had 
been transformed into a first-class hospital, with accom- 
modations for several hundred patients. 

I was located on the third story, which perhaps con- 
tained a hundred wounded men. There was a great deal 
of red tape and form about this hospital, and the discipline 
was very strict. It was a good enough hospital, but at 
the same time it was a good deal like a prison. 

Every morning at io o’clock the surgeon-in-chief would 
make his daily inspection. He was in full uniform, as 
was the big staff of assistants that always accompanied 
him. They marched through the different wards, past 
the cots, to inspect the wounded. We had to have the 
bandages removed from our wounds so that they could be 
seen as the doctors passed. 

To us who were only comparatively slightly wounded 
not much attention was paid. Sometimes the doctors 
would stop and handle the wound in a perfunctory and at 
times rough sort of a way, but that was all. But when 
they came to a particularly bad case they would stop and 
give the matter more attention. 

This was a sort of clinic. The head surgeon would 
examine the wound and perhaps do some probing, while 
the subordinates would stand around and watch the opera- 
tion as the surgeon-in-chief would give a sort of a lecture 
on the character of the injury and its treatment. I will 
describe just one of these serious cases : 

It was the case of a poor wretch who had been struck 
on the hip with a piece of shell. It had broken the hip 
bone into slivers, which, of course, made a running sore. 
Every morning the doctors would stop at this cot and, 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


45i 


after a great deal of probing, would remove one of the 
slivers of bone. For some reason they did not give the 
patient an anaesthetic, and from the way he yelled and 
howled it must have been excruciatingly painful. 

This was kept up for a week or ten days. Every time 
the doctors would stop at the side of the poor fellow they 
would gather around while one of the surgeons fished 
under the sore flesh for another sliver of bone, and never 
stopped tifl they removed it. I remember one morning 
the surgeon-in-chief, after hacking at the fellow for some 
time and removing an infinitesimally small bit of bone, 
made the remark: “To-morrow we will perform the 
principal operation and see if we cannot remove the large 
piece that we feel/’ The poor fellow gave a groan over 
the prospect that echoed through the ward. 

The next morning when the long string of doctors en- 
tered, and the patient referred to saw them coming, he 
gave vent to a series of shrieks and yells that made our 
hearts stand still. He was apprehending the operation 
that the doctors had been talking about the day before. 

They did not give him ether, but began carving at him 
without much preliminary. I never heard a man cry and 
yell from pain as loudly as he did. It was terrible. We 
had to stuff our fingers in our ears so as to keep out the 
sound of his agonizing voice. He begged them to kill 
him outright and put him out of misery. Then he cursed 
them for a lot of devils and butchers. He prayed and 
cursed almost in the same voice, and so loud that it was 
simply a yell. 

The doctors finally got the bone out, and left the suffer- 
ing wretch writhing in agony and alternately praying and 
cursing. He kept this up for perhaps an hour, and then 
suddenly all was ominously quiet. 

Directly I saw a crowd of attendants around the cot. 
There was a brief consultation. Then somebody brought 
a sheet and spread it over the man. Then two men 
brought in a stretcher, and lifting the body on it carried 
it out. He was dead. 

I must say that we all felt glad he was dead and out 
of his terrible suffering. 

This is only one case of many. I simply relate this as 


452 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


an example of some of the terrible heartrending scenes in 
the hospital that we were continually witnessing. 

After a week or so at the Broad and Cherry hospital 
I was removed to the one at the corner of Sixteenth and 
Filbert Streets. This was a large building, originally 
erected for manufacturing purposes. It was only one 
block from Market Street, on the corner of which stood 
a large market building. 

I remained at this hospital till I got well. When able 
to be about I was put on light duties, such as standing 
guard at the door. Then when I could use my hand 
somewhat I was appointed as a sort of an assistant to the 
surgeons when they were operating. In this manner I 
learned considerable about surgery, and more than once 
personally applied an anaesthetic and did a little in the line 
of sewing up simple wounds. Then they put me in the 
dispensary and under instructions I put up many prescrip- 
tions. The doctor in charge took a fancy to me, and spent 
considerable time in explaining the uses of the different 
drugs and the fundamental principles of surgery. 

All this, however, did not save me from a little duty in 
the line of standing guard. This duty was very light. I 
only had to stand on guard at the corner of Market and 
Filbert Streets from 9 to 11 o’clock every other night. 
What particular use we were there for I never discovered. 
Our only instructions were to stop the soldiers coming 
through Filbert Street and make them show their passes. 
If they had no passes we were to get their names and re- 
port them. But nothing was ever done with those who 
had no passes, so that I never saw any use for the service. 

It should be explained that in Washington, Philadelphia 
and other cities where hospitals were located no one could 
leave the institution without a pass. It was easy enough 
to get these passes, and the soldiers were practically free, 
between certain hours, but if they did not have the passes 
they were liable to be taken in by the provost guards. 

There were many hospitals in Philadelphia in those days 
and the city was so filled with soldiers that it almost resem- 
bled a camp. There were as many soldiers as civilians, 
and perhaps more. 

It was while I was in Philadelphia that the news came 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


453 


of the battle of Gettysburg. There had been intense ex- 
citement in the city for several days, for the news had 
arrived that the rebels were marching northward and it 
would not be surprising if they got as far as Philadelphia. 
Consequently there was an incipient panic all through the 
city, and the public nerve was on a great strain. 

This was the state of affairs when the news came that 
General Meade had met and repulsed Lee at Gettysburg 
after a desperate three days’ fight. Now it so happened 
that General Meade, who was in command of the Army 
of the Potomac at Gettysburg, was not only a Pennsyl- 
vanian, but a former resident of Philadelphia, and conse- 
quently there was a strong local pride in his conduct. 
When the news came that the army under General Meade 
had repulsed the Confederate army under General Lee, 
the entire city went wild with enthusiasm. 

Flags were displayed everywhere, and one could not 
look a block through any street without seeing an elegant 
banner stretched across in honor of the occasion. The 
sale of soda water was superseded by the sale of “mead,” 
a sort of root beer, which at once became the popular 
drink. 

In the West General Grant had just achieved one of the 
remarkable victories that brought him into prominence, 
and this, coupled with General Meade’s victory in Penn- 
sylvania, filled the nation from one end to the other with 
enthusiasm ; but nowhere was it more marked than in the 
city of Philadelphia. I remember one particular banner 
which happily referred to both the successful generals, 
and which read as follows : 

“To our victorious commanders, we Grant the Meade 
of praise.” 

The author of that happy and appropriate expression 
made the hit of his life, for it became a regular catch- 
word, and was kept standing at the head of the editorial 
columns of the papers. 

And, by the way, the principal paper read in Philadel- 
phia in those exciting days was the Inquirer. The Phila- 
delphia Inquirer and the Baltimore American were about 
the only newspapers that anybody in Philadelphia read 
then. We seldom or never saw a New York paper, al- 


454 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


though occasionally I came across a copy of the Herald. 

Through these papers I read of the gallant part taken 
by the Thirteenth Regiment in the battle of Gettysburg. 
I rather kind of wished I was with them to share the 
glory, but on the other hand I rather think that I felt 
perfectly satisfied to be where I was. 

It wasn’t long before some of the wounded men of 
the Thirteenth Regiment turned in the Philadelphia hos- 
pitals, and from them I got a full account of the part 
they took in the battle. When I heard this I was more 
than ever glad that I was not present on that occasion. 
And a year or so ago, when I went over the battle grounds 
and visited every one of the three hundred and sixty-six 
handsome monuments there, I was more than ever con- 
vinced that I was sensible in getting comparatively slightly 
wounded at Chancellorsville. 

It was also while I was in Philadelphia that the great 
riot occurred in New York, when the Tribune building 
was partially wrecked, and when so many people were 
killed. That was the time when every negro who came 
in sight was hung to the nearest lamp-post. Several regi- 
ments from the front had to be brought North from fight- 
ing the common enemy to suppress another rebellion that 
had started right in the principal city of the nation. 

The anti-war feeling that was the principal incentive to 
that riot in New York had spread to a greater or less 
extent all over the country, and there were signs of its 
spreading. It might have become national, in fact, but 
for the prompt measures that were taken to suppress it in 
its incipiency. 

This riotous sentiment spread even to Philadelphia, but 
the measures taken there were prompt and decisive. 
Large bodies of armed men were stationed all over, in 
the market houses and other places and drilled in the 
riot tactics. Their guns were loaded with bullets and had 
the riot started there would have been some bloody work. 

Philadelphia is a city gridironed with street railroads. 
It was even so in those days. Hastily the tops were torn 
off many passenger cars, and they were made into plat- 
form cars. On the platforms of these cars were placed 
howitzers, loaded with grape and canister. The cars, 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


455 


fully manned, were run into the depots of the street rail- 
roads, and remained there ready for instant emergency. 
There were not enough artillerymen in the city to man all 
these portable batteries, and infantrymen were pressed 
into the service. 

To this duty I was assigned, greatly to my terror. I 
didn’t want to be killed in a riot, after having passed 
through several battles in the front ! But there I was. I 
was given a big wooden ramrod, with a brush arrange- 
ment on the end, and they told me it was a “swab.” I was 
shown how to use it. Immediately after the cannon had 
been fired I was to clean out the barrel with the swab, 
and then step to one side for the next man to push in 
another cartridge — an arrangement that looked like a 
bag of salt. 

But fortunately for the unruly element of Philadelphia, 
they did not break out into a riot and my services as chief 
swabber were not required. The chances are that I 
would have been so excited that I would have forgotten to 
pull out the wooden ramrod arrangement and some citizen 
of Philadelphia might have been hunting for a doctor 
with a thick wooden bar sticking through his stomach ! 

We had lots of good times in Philadelphia. The 
Chestnut Street and Walnut Street theaters were run- 
ning and I visited them several times a week. I remem- 
ber the spectacular play of “Joseph and His Brethren” 
in Walnut Street, and in the Chestnut Street theater I saw 
“The Duke’s Motto” and Edwin Booth in “Hamlet,” 
while in the Arch Street theater I saw the debut of Caro- 
line Richings in opera, under the management of the late 
Edmon S. Conner. 

Taken altogether, therefore, our soldier life in Philadel- 
phia was not unpleasant, and the several months we spent 
there vrere enjoyable. 

Some time in the fall an officer came around to examine 
us to see if we were sufficiently recovered to be returned 
to our regiments. A good many were pronounced able 
to go back to the field. I can’t say that I felt happy at 
this prospect, but I could only obey if so ordered. 

But after my examination, I was informed that I was 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


45 6 

not to go back. I was to be transferred to the Invalid 
Corps. 

And here is to be introduced another branch of army 
life, about which not much has been written. And it 
leads into a very interesting branch of the writer’s military 
experience. But of that I will wait for another chapter. 



The rebel prisoners were a dirty, untidy, forlorn-looking lot of men. 

Page 459 


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THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


457 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 

A BOIyD STEP. 

About the time the war was about half through, say 
the latter part of 1863, the government began to be con- 
fronted by an unprecedented condition of affairs. In 
the North the supply of volunteers was becoming too 
small to meet the calls for troops, and drafting was 
about to be resorted to. In the army large numbers of 
men were being disabled by wounds and from the sick- 
ness caused by exposure from service in the field. 

Necessarily, many able-bodied men, who were capable 
of performing duty at the front, were being kept in the 
rear for duty as guardsmen, orderlies, clerks, etc., at 
the headquarters, around the provost guard posts, and 
other places, where the services required were indispen- 
sable yet not physically arduous. 

It struck some one to use the wounded men for this 
reserve service, and after a good many different sugges- 
tions had been made and rejected, a branch of the army, 
called the “Invalid Corps,” was organized. 

The Invalid Corps, at first, was composed of two 
battalions, the first and the second. The Second Bat- 
talion was composed of men who had lost a leg or arm. 
They could elect whether to be discharged or remain in 
the service in the Second Battalion, and the most of 
them selected the service, for they began to appreciate 
the fact that a man minus one of the more important 
members of his body was lucky if he could get anything 
to do to earn a living. These men, however, could run 
errands, stand guard at gates and doorways, and do a 
thousand and one little things as well as a strong, able- 
bodied man, who might better be utilized at the front. 

The First Battalion was composed of men less seri- 
ously injured, such as those with the loss of a part of a 


45 8 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


hand or foot, or who limped or suffered in some other 
way to such an extent that they were not able to do 
active duty at the front in the field. The latter had no 
class choice. They were put in the Invalid Corps 
whether they liked it or not, and could not elect to be 
discharged like those who went into the other battalion. 

It was into this branch that I was drafted. I not 
only missed the part of my hand, but the wounds in 
my hip and foot made me limp considerably, and it was 
impossible for me to walk any great distance. At the 
same time I was able to do pretty good service in every- 
thing that did not involve marching or remaining out 
in the hot sun, for the effects of the serious sunstroke I 
had received at Rockville had begun to trouble me con- 
siderably more than they did at first. 

And thus it was that I was transferred into the In- 
valid Corps during the latter part of the year 1863. 
This meant that I should serve my time out in this 
branch of the service, and never rejoin the regiment 
again. But my heart was with them and I closely fol- 
lowed the movements of my old companions wherever 
they went. 

I should say right here that the name Invalid Corps 
did not stick to the organization very long. There was 
something about the name that was for some reason 
considered opprobrious, and ridicule was thrown on 
that branch of the service for no other reason than the 
title. So, at the suggestion of some of the leading 
officers of the organization, the name was changed to 
“Veteran Reserve Corps/ ” and so it continued to the 
end of the war, and it became a very useful branch of 
the service. 

The officers of the Veteran Reserve Corps were com- 
missioned by the President of the United States instead 
of by the governors of the different States, as were the 
ordinary volunteers. In fact the commission of an 
officer in the Veteran Reserve Corps was the same as 
one of the regular army, and the rank was the same — 
that is, about one grade higher, rank for rank, than the 
officers of the volunteer service. 

After the usual formalities of my transfer from the 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


459 


Thirteenth New Jersey to the Veteran Reserve Corps, I 
was assigned to Company D, Sixteenth Regiment, 
which was formed at Philadelphia, but immediately 
transferred to Elmira, New York. 

At the latter place were located large military prisons 
for the confinement of rebel captives. The prisons, as 
well as the quarters for the men, were nothing more 
than rough barracks. The prisoners might have broken 
out at any time almost, but the security depended upon 
for their safety consisted in the cordon of guards sta- 
tioned about the buildings, and the large reserve guard 
which was always kept on duty at the guardhouse to 
be called upon at any moment. 

The rebel prisoners were a dirty, untidy, forlorn- 
looking lot of men, but as a whole tolerably good- 
natured and affording not the slightest trouble to keep 
under control. They were comfortably housed, not- 
withstanding the fact that the weather was cold (and 
there was snow on the ground all the time I was at 
Elmira), and they were better fed than they had been at 
any time during their service in the Confederate army. 
In fact there is reason to believe that some of them were 
better fed than they ever were at their homes in the 
South, for the class of men we had in our charge was not 
representative of the so-called aristocratic chivalry of 
the sunny South. 

The rebels in our charge were prisoners in name and 
in fact, but they were a happy-go-lucky lot, and didn’t 
seem to care for anything except to eat. In marked 
contrast with their condition was the horrible treatment 
received by the starved and illy treated Northern sol- 
diers who were so unfortunate as to be confined in those 
death-holes, Libby and Andersonville. 

Our life at Elmira during the late fall and early win- 
ter of 1863 was monotonous in the extreme. There 
wasn’t much to be seen in Elmira in those days, for it 
was a comparatively small place. About the only 
place of amusement in the town was a little one-horse 
sort of music hall, where we occasionally went in the 
evening, and my recollection of the place altogether is 
that of its being intolerably stupid and uninteresting. 


460 the young volunteer 

For some reason, perhaps from inspiration, but more 
likely because I had nothing better to do, I spent many 
of the long evenings in studying the revised army regu- 
lations, articles of war and tactics. Theoretically I had 
all these things at my fingers’ ends. I don’t know 
what ever took me to studying them, but as it turned 
out shortly it was a happy thing for me that I did so. 

One evening while in the captain’s office helping him 
make out some reports, I happened to pick up a circular 
issued from the office of Provost Marshal General James 
B. Fry, who at that time seemed to be at the head of 
the Veteran Corps. He was a sort of secretary of war 
for that branch of the service, as it were. 

This circular was to the effect that examinations 
would be held in the city of Washington on January 
27, 1864, for the appointment of sixteen lieutenants of 
the Veteran Reserve Corps, and it was desired that this 
examination be confined to members of the corps. The 
circular gave full instructions how to proceed. 

My heart jumped into my throat at the sight of this. 
It seemed to be so presumptuous that I hardly had the 
nerve to mention it to anybody. But the more I 
thought of it the stronger did the feeling become, till at 
last, on the following morning, I went to the captain’s 
office and informed him that I desired to make an appli- 
cation for examination for a commissioned officer. 

The captain looked at me with a smile. He saw be- 
fore him a boy not yet twenty years old, not at all im- 
posing in appearance, in fact very youthful-looking, 
and anything in the world seemed more appropriate 
than to imagine him in the uniform of a commissioned 
officer. No wonder the captain laughed. 

But I meant it, and soon impressed the captain with 
my earnestness. He at once took some interest in my 
case, and assisted me in writing my application. The 
circular, however, said that the application must be 
accompanied by a recommendation from my former 
company officers. 

Then I remembered the conversation I once had with 
Captain Hopkins, of Company K. He had promised 
that if ever I wanted him to do anything for me he 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


461 


would do it, and it will perhaps be remembered at 
the time I told him I would remember the promise 
and call upon him to keep it. So I wrote to Captain 
Hopkins and asked him to get the approval of my old 
officers, not only from Company K, but if possible from 
Colonel Carman as well. 

I felt a little doubtful about the latter. The last time 
I had spoken to Colonel Carman was down near Wolf 
Run Shoals. The supply of provisions had run short 
and we were for two or three days in danger of being 
starved to death. It was all the result of blundering on 
the part of the officers. Being possessed of the pen- 
chant for newspaper correspondence, and having had 
two or three letters already published in the New York 
Herald, I sent that paper a very interesting account of our 
half-starved condition, which was published. In that 
letter I gave the officers the dickens, and pitched into 
Colonel Carman especially. 

By some bad luck a copy of the Herald containing 
the letter fell into the hands of the colonel. He showed 
it to General Ruger, and the result of it was that I 
was clapped into the guardhouse. After being there 
several hours the colonel came to visit me. He gave 
me a scolding. There was no law that prevented a 
private from sending a letter to a newspaper, and that 
was the only punishment he could give me. But he 
exacted a promise from me that I would not write any 
more letters to newspapers, and, not knowing any bet- 
ter at the time, I complied and stopped my correspond- 
ence. 

That was the last conversation I had had personally 
with the colonel before I left the regiment a wounded 
soldier at the battle of Chancellorsville. I therefore 
had very little hopes of receiving the recommendation 
of Colonel Carman. 

But nevertheless I did. In the course of a couple of 
weeks or so the answer to my letter to Captain Hopkins 
was received. The kind captain had more than kept 
his promise to me. The recommendation he sent was of 
the strongest possible character. It commended me for 
my intelligence, faithfulness to duty, and of all things 


462 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


in the world, for my bravery and courage in the field of 
battle in the face of the enemy. In fact the document 
was so extremely complimentary that, to use a modern 
expression, I was “quite stuck on myself.” 

But, what was my surprise, on turning the recom- 
mendation over to find that it was signed by every offi- 
cer of the Thirteenth Regiment. The document bore 
the signatures of some officers that I had never spoken 
to in my life, and who did not know the difference be- 
tween me and a side of sole leather. But I could see 
through it all. They had all dpne this at the request 
of Captain Hopkins. Kind captain ! How grateful I 
felt to him for this. I immediately sat down and wrote 
him my thanks, and as they were expressive of my feel- 
ing just at that particular moment they must have been 
very warm. 

The next thing was to get a furlough for ten days to 
go to Washington to pass the examination. This was 
easily secured, under the circumstances. Not only does 
a commissioned officer stand higher socially and other- 
wise than a private, but the very fact that a private 
stands a slight chance of being a commissioned officer 
puts him in a position to taste for the first time the 
privileges of a commission. Colonel Stephen A. Moore, 
the commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, V. R. C., at 
once granted me the desired furlough and kindly wished 
me every good luck on my journey. 

“If you don’t return wearing a pair of shoulder 
straps,” said he good-naturedly, “I’ll put you in the 
guardhouse.” 

Now that it began to look so much like business I 
began to be frightened. I almost felt like backing out. 
The idea of my going to Washington and undertaking 
to pass an examination to prove that I was able and 
qualified to hold a commission in a branch of the regu- 
lar army was overwhelming. It seemed such a piece 
of cheek that I half felt a mind to tear up the furlough 
and give the whole thing up. 

But on the other hand I considered what a glorious 
thing it would be to be a commissioned officer, to wear 
shoulder straps, and to step into the other estate so high 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


463 


above that of the enlisted soldier. I concluded to go 
on and face it through, whatever the result. And on 
the evening of January 26th, the day before that set for 
the commencement of the examination, I found myself 
in Washington again. 

I put up at the old National Hotel. As I looked into 
the glass that night I was struck at my extremely youthful 
appearance, and more than ever w^s overcome with the 
cheek I had in thinking of being a commissioned officer. 
My mustache had just begun to show itself. It was a 
mere downy mass on my upper lip, hardly distinguishable 
to the naked eye ! My hair was long, uncouth and scrag- 
gly. If I remember rightly the last time it was cut it was 
by one of my comrades in the barracks, and it looked as 
if it had been hacked off with a carving knife. 

A happy thought struck me. I must do something with 
that mustache. Every officer wore a mustache, that is, 
every officer in Washington. The larger the mustache 
the more dignified and ferocious an officer looked. In 
fact, to a certain extent the importance of a commissioned 
officer in those days was based on the size and impressive- 
ness of his mustache. 

I must do something to make my mustache show more 
plainly. At first I thought I would get a false one, such 
as they wear at masquerades, and paste it on my upper lip. 
But I discarded that idea as being too dangerous. Sup- 
pose the thing should drop off while I was undergoing the 
examination ! That would ruin my chances at once. I 
would be ignominiously relegated to my regiment as a 
private for trying to get a commission under false pre- 
tenses. 

But at last I solved the problem. I would go to the 
barber’s and have that mustache dyed black. Then it 
would show more plainly. Further, I would get my hair 
cut to a crop, and the comparison would make the mus- 
tache still more prominent. I had solved the difficulty at 
once, and immediately proceeded to put it into execution. 

I found a barber’s shop on the first floor of the hotel, 
stretched myself back into the chair and gave the order. 
The barbers were all colored men in Washington in those 
days, and I remembered the smiling look my man gave his 


464 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


next companion as I gave the order to have my mustache 
dyed. 

But it was accomplished at last. It cost me eighty 
cents for the job, but I never invested eighty cents that 
gave me greater satisfaction. When I surveyed myself 
in the glass, I straightened myself out with ineffable pride 
— for my mustache could be seen clear across the room. 
I squinted my eyes downward and could even get a 
glance of it below my nose. It was the first time in my 
life that I had been able to see my own mustache ! 

I took a short walk through Pennsylvania avenue, clean 
gone on myself. I wondered if everybody did not notice 
that I was some distinguished personage, with such a big 
mustache ! I felt at least a foot taller than I did before. 
With an air of importance I stalked into a saloon and 
asked for a cocktail ! 

“Can’t sell liquor to enlisted men,” said the barkeeper. 

I had forgotten. I was only a private yet. I had for- 
gotten that I still wore my dingy blue suit of a private in 
the Veteran Reserve Corps. If I had the shoulder straps 
I might have filled myself up with liquor till I could not 
stand. But none was sold to a private. 

There was a feeling of humiliation about this. The 
idea that a man cannot buy what he wants when he has 
money in his pocket, simply because of his rank, is very 
galling to a native-born American. But such was the 
rule. Washington was under martial law, so far as the 
soldiers were concerned, and any saloon keeper who sold 
liquor to an enlisted man in uniform was liable to have his 
license revoked. Had I put on a citizen’s suit I might 
have got all the liquor I wanted. But then, strange as it 
may appear now, it was against the law for an enlisted 
soldier to wear a civilian suit of clothes. It was regarded 
as a prima facie evidence that the man was disguising 
himself for the purpose of deserting. Another evidence 
of the degradation of low rank! 

I really didn’t want the drink. I had merely gone in 
because I just then felt my importance, and because it was 
a proper sign of importance for a man in my position to 
go into a saloon and order a drink. But I had come down 
like the stick of a used-up sky rocket. I had a mustache 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


465 


that could be seen, it is true, but the other necessity, the 
shoulder straps, were not yet visible. I had to go through 
something worse than a barber’s shop before I got that 
insignia of rank. 

The examination was to begin the next morning at 10 
o’clock, and I was on hand bright and early. No sooner 
had I arrived, however, than I was almost paralyzed with 
the prospect. 

As I said before, the circular of instructions said that 
there were sixteen appointments to be made. What was 
my horror to find that there were at least one hundred and 
fifty men there to be examined. 

And some of them were very important-looking. Some 
looked as if they had already held commissioned offices. 
Many of them looked wise and important. Nearly every 
one was older than I. In fact, I think that I was the 
youngest man there, and I imagined that some of the 
others looked at me with a disdainful air. Worst of all, 
most of the other candidates had mustaches ten times as 
formidable-looking as the miserable little black dyed out- 
line of hair on my upper lip ! What chances had I along- 
side such an array of formidable hirsute adornment ! 

An airish and important-looking officer came from an- 
other apartment into the room where we were huddled 
and read off the list of applicants, like a roll call. The list 
was made out in the order the applications had been re- 
ceived. Mine was nearly to the bottom. Another discour- 
aging thing, I thought. The appointments would all be 
filled before my name was reached. 

I took a note of the time it would take before my turn 
came, and from the time it took for the first ones to be 
examined, calculated that it would be quite late in the 
afternoon before my turn was reached. As I sat there 
looking over the circular of instructions again, I suddenly 
jumped at the sight of a name I had not noticed before. 
It was that of “Colonel M. N. Wisewell,” an officer who 
held an important position in the office of the provost mar- 
shal general, and whose name was signed to the circular. 

'How well I recognized the familiar signature. Of all 
the men in the world, I could have wished for none more 
just then than Colonel Wisewell. Let me explain. 


4 66 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


When I lived in Yonkers, New York, a boy, I went for 
a while to M. N. Wisewell’s military academy. It was 
there that I received my first instruction. My father had 
only sent me there for the discipline, as he said, never 
imagining that it would be any particular benefit to me. 
But it was very fortunate for me just then. Colonel 
Wisewell, by the way, after the war, was the principal of 
the military academy at Eaglewood, near Perth Amboy, 
New Jersey. 

I thought that I would at once try to see Colonel Wise- 
well at his office, and proceeded' to the war department. 

Now it was a hard thing in those days for a private 
soldier to get into the war department without a pass or 
order or some sort of an introduction. I was stopped 
at almost every turn of the hallways by a soldier on guard, 
but as I had had some newspaper experience in getting 
into places, I finally succeeded in reaching the office of the 
provost marshal general. Right at the entrance whom 
should I run right into but Colonel Wisewell himself ! 

The colonel was a remarkable-looking man. He was 
considerably over six feet high and had an eagle nose of 
the hookiest shape imaginable. He also had an eagle 
eye that seemed to look straight through you. He was 
altogether a man of extraordinary, commanding appear- 
ance, and in his uniform he looked more commanding than 
ever. I remember being struck just then with the impres- 
sion of how appropriate it was that a man with an eagle 
eye and an eagle nose should wear eagles on his shoulder 
straps — a silver spread eagle being the insignia of a 
colonel. 

“Colonel Wisewell?” I said quite bravely. 

“Well, sir, what do you want?” he asked, very brusque- 
ly, not to say harshly. 

“Do you remember me, colonel?” I asked, somewhat 
timorously, for his brusque manner had rather discon- 
certed me. 

He turned his eagle eye at me, and his glance seemed to 
penetrate my innermost soul. I was terrified lest he 
should have forgotten his former humble pupil at Yonkers 
academy. For a moment he hesitated, and then said : 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 467 

“Your face is familiar, but I can’t place you. What is 
your name ?” 

My heart rather went down. But if I had stopped to 
think a moment I might have considered that it was quite 
improbable that he should have recognized me on the 
start. 

I was a mere boy when I attended his school and it was 
several years previous. Furthermore, how was it likely 
that he should have recognized me there, in that place and 
in that uniform? But I was a little shaky when I an- 
swered : 

“My name is Crowell. I used to attend your academy 

“Oh, yes,” he interrupted, “I recognize you now. You 
are Joe Crowell. But what are you doing here? I had 
no idea you were in the army.” 

Then I related to him the circumstances, and briefly 
went over my services in the Thirteenth, and explained 
how I had come on to be examined for a commission, but 
was afraid that with so many applicants there was little 
chance for me unless I had some influence. I frankly 
acknowledged that I had come to him to ask for his in- 
fluence to help me through. 

His answer was more than I could have expected. He 
gave me to understand then and there that if I could 
pass at least a creditable examination he would be able 
to help me through. And he very complimentarily re- 
marked that any one who had been a pupil at his school in 
Yonkers ought to know enough to answer the questions 
that would be propounded. 

“When do you expect to be called before the examining 
board?” he finally asked. 

“Some time this afternoon,” I replied. “Judging from 
the way they are going I should think that I would be 
called about 3 o’clock this afternoon.” 

“All right,” said he, “I will attend to the matter at once. 
You go and take your seat as you were and wait till you 
are called, and say nothing to any one about having seen 
me, for if it is heard that there can be any help, there will 
be no end to the applicants for assistance.” 

I went back to the rooms of the examining board with 


468 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


a much lighter heart. In a few minutes I noticed Colonel 
Wisewell enter the examination room, and directly he 
came out again. He gave me a significant nod of recog- 
nition as he passed me, but I had the sense not to stop him 
to ask any questions. I knew, however, from his glance 
that he had done everything he could do. 

According to my calculations and judging from the 
number of candidates still ahead of me on the list, I 
thought that it would be at least two hours before my 
name was reached. But what was my surprise a few 
moments later to see one of the officers stick his head 
out of the mysterious apartment of torture, and, looking 
around, ask: 

“Is Private Crowell here?” 

I arose and answered in the affirmative. 

“All right,” said the officer. “Come right in now.” 

I was so nearly paralyzed with astonishment and fright 
that I staggered like a drunken man. My shaking knees 
could hardly bear the weight of my body as I made my 
way into the mysterious chamber. 

My self-possession was not in the least restored when I 
glanced around and saw the array of generals and colonels 
and majors gathered around the long table at the end of 
the room. 

Then began the inquisition. I had come to the gulf 
that separates the private from the commissioned officer. 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


469 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

CROSSING THE GREAT GULF. 

None except those who have served in the army can 
fully appreciate the vast gulf that exists between the “en- 
listed man” and the “commissioned officer.” 

The former is the plebeian, the serf of the army, the 
latter the aristocrat, the autocrat of the service. 

The difference between the master and a slave in the 
old times was hardly greater than that between the en- 
listed soldier and the commissioned officer. The former 
was compelled to do whatever the latter commanded, no 
matter what it might be. If an officer commanded a sol- 
dier to blacken his boots, brush his clothes, cook his break- 
fast, or even wash his shirt, to refuse or disobey would 
be regarded as mutiny. The soldier might subsequently 
make a protest, and perhaps — I say perhaps — it might be 
righted by instructions being given to the officer not to 
again put the soldier on such menial service. 

But for the time being it w*as the soldier’s duty to obey. 
In fact, the first thing a soldier is taught is to obey orders, 
no matter what they may be. And it were better for 
him to do so, for if there was a protest against some mean 
service, the officer could, by a system of petty tyranny, 
make that soldier’s life forever after a hell on earth. 

The best advice I can give to a soldier is to obey orders, 
no matter what they may be ; and as far as possible keep 
on the right side of the officers. 

This vast gulf I was about to cross, or to try to cross. 
It was therefore not an ordinary examination. The result 
was momentous. It was perhaps one of the most im- 
portant steps I had ever taken. I was impressed with its 
importance, and naturally felt very nervous over the result. 
I had not the slightest idea of the nature of the questions 
to be asked, and so had not had the chance to make 


470 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


any preparation. I had more than a fair knowledge of 
the tactics and articles of war and military matters gen- 
erally, but I had been given to understand that the exam- 
ination would go a good deal further than that, although 
in what direction I was profoundly ignorant. 

Seated around the table in the middle of the examina- 
tion room were a lot of gold-laced, shoulder-strapped of- 
ficers, whom I did not know at the time, but whom I sub- 
sequently learned were as follows: 

There were Colonel Richard H. Rush, Colonel G. N. 
Morgan, Colonel F. D. Sewall/ Colonel B. J. Sweet, Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel Dewitt C. Poole and Captain James R. 
O’Beirne. The latter is a prominent New Yorker at the 
present time. He is the same Colonel O’Beirne who was 
commissioner of immigration, who refused to vamoose the 
ranch when another man was placed in his position, on 
the ground that he was a veteran and that under the civil 
service rules he could not be removed except for cause. 

The above-named officers were the official members of 
the examination board. I noticed a number of others sit- 
ting around, but they were there simply as spectators. 
They appeared to enjoy the torture of the innocents the 
same as the kings and emperors of old enjoyed the torture 
of the prisoners brought before them. 

Well, the examination began promptly on time. Colonel 
Rush, the president of the board, sent the ball rolling in a 
kindly meant way by advising me not to be nervous and 
to keep cool, as the examination would not be a hard 
one. This was all right, but the idea that he should have 
considered it necessary to give me any such advice at all 
struck me as a preparation for something terrible, and, if 
anything, it made me all the more nervous. 

The first question was, of course, my name and resi- 
dence, occupation before enlisting, and all such things. 
Then came the time I had been in the army, the battles 
I had been in, and the nature of my wounds. When 
this part of the examination had been reached I had to 
undress and be examined by two surgeons who were 
present. I did not like the idea of stripping before so 
many big officers, but then I had come prepared to go 
through anything that might come along, the same as a 



Then they tackled me on grammar and spelling. 


Page 471 



THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


47i 


fellow does when he offers himself as a candidate for 
initiation in a Masonic lodge. 

This through, after being examined like a horse for all 
my “points,” I resumed my clothing, and the questions 
were fired at me with lightning rapidity. 

As I said before, I had posted myself on the regulations, 
articles of war, tactics, and such things, and could even 
I draw from memory many of the blanks used in the service, 
thanks to my experience as company clerk. Then they 
commenced asking me questions touching my general in- 
telligence. 

Mathematics was my weak point always, and I felt sure 
that I would stumble on these things, but fortunately they 
did not go further than the computation of interest and 
the multiplication of plain fractions. If they had gone 
into the mixed and vulgar fractions I would have fallen 
by the wayside. They skipped over algebra, to my great 
satisfaction, for on that subject I never got further than to 
know that “x equalled the unknown quantity,” and the 
rest has been an “unknown quantity” all my life. They 
asked me one question in geometry, and it happened to be 
about the only one I could have answered. It was the 
first problem in Book I. of Davies’ “Legendre,” and I 
guess that must have been as far as any of my examiners 
had ever got themselves. 

What under the sun all these things had to do with 
- holding the commission of a lieutenant, perhaps the reader 
would like to know. So would I. I never did know. 

Then they tackled me with geography, and here I made 
a pretty mess of it. “How long is the Mississippi River?” 
I was asked. How did I know ? How many of my read- 
ers can tell, offhanded? “How many square miles are 
there in Lake Superior ?” was fired at me. I began to get 
desperate. 

“Gentlemen,” said I, reaching for my hat, “I am a can- 
didate for a position in the army, not in the navy.” 

I thought it was all up with me then. But instead of 
getting mad about it, my sally provoked a laugh, and 
they dropped the question of the areage of the great lakes. 

Then they tackled me on grammar and spelling and 
literature, in which I did fairly well, I imagine, for there 


472 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


were approving nods passed round the board. And when 
I was asked to take a seat at the table and write an imag- 
inary report of a street riot, I was right in my element, for 
I simply wrote it out as I would have done for a news- 
paper. 

But I will not weary the reader by any further details 
of the examination. It lasted apparently a long while, 
but it was not so long after all, for when I was dismissed 
and got out into the other room I had not been before the 
board much more than half an hour. 

Of course, I did not knotv whether I had passed or 
not. I was told that I would receive word of the result 
in due time. From that moment I was oil pins and 
needles. Now the prize seemed to be so near my grasp, 
I was more than ever anxious to secure it. I went to the 
hotel that afternoon in a very disconcerted state of mind 
over the feeling of uncertainty. 

In the evening I met Colonel Wisewell at Willard’s 
Hotel, where I had wandered somewhat aimlessly. The 
colonel was quite friendly. 

“I have a room here,” said he. “Come up.” 

And I went upstairs with the colonel. He rang a bell 
and the boy brought us some whisky. I felt that I 
needed something just then. Then I touched the bell. I 
had a little money and we had a good time ! 

During the evening two of the officers of the examin- 
ing board dropped in. I was considerably surprised at 
their appearance: 

“I was just treating my old friend and schoolmaster, 
Colonel Wisewell,” I said. “If I were a commissioned 
officer I would ask you to join. I believe that it is con- 
trary to the ethics of the service for a commissioned officer 
to drink with a private soldier.” 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that little thing, lieuten- 
ant,” said Colonel (I won’t mention his name). 

“Lieutenant?” said I wonderingly. 

“Yes, Lieutenant Crowell, permit me to congratulate 
you.” 

“You don’t mean to say that I passed all right?” asked 
I, with ill-suppressed delight. 

“That’s just what I mean. You will receive formal 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


473 


notice in the morning. You are practically a second lieu- 
tenant now at this moment, for your commission dates 
from to-day.” 

For a moment I was speechless. I could hardly real- 
ize it. 

I rang the bell. There were no electric buttons in those 
days — only a sort of little brass crank fastened into the 
wall, which sounded a bell in the office. “Boy,” said I, 
with all the air of a major-general, when the waiter stuck 
his woolly head into the door, “boy, bring up half a dozen 
bottles of wine.” 

Champagne was then five dollars a bottle, and small 
bottles at that. But what did I care for expense just at 
that moment? Thirty dollars in a momentary swoop, to 
be sure. One-third of the capital I had brought to Wash- 
ington gone in a minute! But I never thought of the 
expense just then. I was getting one hundred and twen- 
ty-five dollars a month then, instead of the measly thirteen 
dollars that I had been receiving as a private. 

We drank the wine, and one of the officers ordered some 
more. Then another officer ordered some more, and 
so on ! 

All the same I got back to my hotel about midnight 
without assistance! 

I passed through the office of the “National” that night 
in the plain garb of a private soldier. “Only an enlisted 
man,” is what any one would have said to see me. But I 
held a blessed secret in my heart that made me greatly 
enjoy the incognito. 

There was little sleep for me that night. A commis- 
sioned officer ! The dreams of every soldier are to be a 
commissioned officer. I had been accorded the distinction. 
I could hardly realize it. It seemed all so sudden that 
as I lay there on my bed that night I had to go over and 
over the facts to make myself believe that I had really 
been so fortunate. 

I felt a little rocky in the morning and thought that a 
cocktail would rouse me up. I forgot my uniform and 
ordered it with all the gusto of a general. 

“Can’t sell liquor to enlisted men,” said the barkeeper. 

I had forgotten. But then I wasn’t an enlisted man. 


474 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Would I tell the barkeeper? No, I guess not. He would 
not believe me anyhow. And I rather enjoyed the dis- 
guise, as I had begun to regard my private’s uniform. So 
I took a plain lemonade. I have an idea now that it did 
me a good deal more benefit than the cocktail would have 
done. 

The next morning I received an official document set- 
ting all doubts at rest. Here is a copy of the original I 
have now before me : 

Office of the Board of Examination of Officers] 
of the Invahd Corps, }• 

Washington, D. C., January 27, 1864. J 

Report of the examination of Private Joseph E. Crowell, 
Co. D, 1 6th Regt. Inv. Corps, by the Board of Examina- 
tion convened by Special Orders No. 9 (Ex. 26), War 
Dept., 1864. 

Having carefully examined Private Joseph E. Crowell, 
Co. D, 16th Regt. I. C., upon Tactics, Regulations, Articles 
of War, Field Service, Discipline, Disability, General 
Education, and capacity for holding a commission, upon 
mature deliberation decide to recommend Private Joseph 
E. Crowell, Co. D, 16th Regt. I. C., for the appointment 
of Second Lieutenant in the Invalid Corps and to do duty 
in the First Battalion. 

(Signed) 

Rich’d H. Rush, Col. 1st Regt. I. C., Pres’t of 
Board. 

G. N. Morgan, Col. 2d Regt. I. C., member. 

F. D. Sewall, Col. 3d, 4th Regt. In. Corps. 

R. J. Sweet, Col. 8th Regt. I. C., member. 

Dewitt C. Poole, Lieut.-Col. I. C. 

A true copy, 

James R. O’Beirne, Capt. I. C., on duty. 

As before explained, the name of the organization at 
that time was the “Invalid Corps.” It was subsequently 
changed to “Veteran Reserve Corps.” The change was 
made between the time of my examination and the receipt 
of my commission from the president, so that the commis- 
sion bore the new name, and I have been informed that 
mine was the first commission issued under the name of 
the “Veteran Reserve Corps,” 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


475 


I went up to the provost marshal general’s office the 
same day and asked Colonel Wisewell what to do next. 

He told me that there were certain formalities to be ob- 
served before I got my commission. I had to return to 
•Elmira, where I would receive a formal announcement, 
and the colonel of my regiment would also be similarly 
notified. And on the strength of that notice he would 
grant me a discharge as private. 

So I returned to Elmira. I called on Colonel Moore 
and informed him of my success, and he congratulated me 
heartily. 

“It’s a good thing that you got through all right,” said 
he good-naturedly, “for you will remember what I told you 
— that if you failed I would put you in the guard-house.” 

I laughingly remembered. 

For several days I waited for the official announcement 
of my appointment. As the days rolled by I began to 
get discouraged. What if after all there should be some 
mistake about it? The disappointment would have been 
terrible, after my ideas had been raised so high. 

It was not till the 8th of February that I received the 
expected notification. It was dated February 2d, but 
there was so much red tape to go through in those days 
that there always was a delay in official documents. But 
the thing came at last, and I have it before me. It reads 
as follows: 

“War Department,] 
“Provost Marshal General’s Office,}- 
“Washington, D. C., February 2, 1864.J 
“Second Lieutenant Joseph E. Crowell, 

Invalid Corps, 

Elmira, N. Y. 

“Sir : Inclosed you will receive your appointment in 
the Invalid Corps. You will put yourself in uniform, 
according to the instructions contained in the inclosed 
circular, and report, in person, to the Provost Marshal 
General, Washington, D. C., with as little delay as pos- 
sible. I am, very respectfully, 

“Your obedient servant, 

“M. N. Wisewell, 

“Colonel and Assistant to Provost Marshal General.” 


476 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


There was a little note attached to the effect that if I 
did not report in seven days it would be construed as 
a non-acceptance of the appointment. No danger of 
that ! I would be there on time all right, you bet ! 

Colonel Moore, of the regiment to which I had been 
attached, received notice of my appointment at the same 
time, and he at once made out my discharge. I left 
Elmira the same day with the congratulations of my 
former companions and the envy of the men with whom 
I had been intimately associated in the menial duties of 
a private soldier. 

The next thing was the uniform. I concluded to 
patronize home industry and made a bee-line for Pater- 
son, and gave the order to a tailor of that city. The 
uniform was an expensive and elaborate affair. The 
overcoat alone cost $95. The sword and sash, which I 
have yet, cost $30. Altogether the outfit cost in the 
neighborhood of $250, and I had to borrow some money 
to make it up. But a jump from $13 to $125 a month 
and expenses paid was such an advance that the ques- 
tion of expense never entered my mind. 

If ever I had a good time I had it on that occasion. I 
visited all my old friends and enjoyed myself im- 
mensely. I was regarded as a sort of hero, too, and 
I didn’t let on to a single soul that I was anything 
else ! 

But I was surprised at the absence of so many of my 
old associates. I would ask for this one and that one, 
only to be told that he had enlisted in this or that regi- 
ment. It really seemed as if all my old friends had 
gone to the front. Paterson looked deserted. And my 
best girl had been married. If she had seen me in my 
uniform she never would have done it. 

But there were still some people in town that I re- 
membered well enough, including some of those whose 
speeches had instigated me and so many others to en- 
list. They never went themselves. Their course was 
like that of the dominie who said : “I want you to do as 
I say, not as I do.” They fought the war with a chin — 
as did Samson of old, in his enocunter with the Philis- 
tines ! 



The uniform was an expensive and elaborate affair. 


Page 476 





THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


477 


Before the week was up I was ready, and started 
once more for Washington. There was lots of fun 
traveling in those days, for it cost nothing. All that it 
was necessary to do was to exhibit the order received to 
the nearest quartermaster (and there were quartermas- 
ters stationed in almost every city just for such pur- 
poses) and he would give you an order on the railroad, 
which was technically known as “transportation.” This 
order presented at the ticket office would give a ticket 
for the trip, whether it involved one or a thousand men. 

So I went to Washington in style. There were no 
Pullman cars in those days, or the officers would have 
patronized them. The officers always took the best 
there was to be had. I am speaking of the commis- 
sioned officer. Cattle cars were good enough for the 
enlisted men. But I had passed the great gulf and was 
now a commissioned officer. 

The weather was very cold, and I wore my big over- 
coat, a dark blue, navy cloth garment, with a wide 
cape, and the front all decorated with braids and loops 
instead of buttons. The number of braids in the deco- 
rations indicated the rank. 

But they were not so noticeable as the bright new 
shoulder straps, and I remember throwing back my 
overcoat so that the shoulder straps would show. I 
only wished that my mustache was a little bigger. The 
dye was wearing off. I would have to patronize that 
Washington barber again as soon as I reached the 
capital ! 

I will digress a moment to say that while I had re- 
ceived my appointment, I had not yet my regular com- 
mission. I did not receive that for some time after. 
The commission was precisely the same as those given 
to the officers of the regular army. They were signed 
by the President of the United States. They were 
neatly engraved on real parchment, and highly prized 
by the recipients, more so in fact than the commissions 
of volunteer officers, for the latter were signed only by 
the governors of States, while those of the regular army 
and the Veteran Reserve Corps were signed by the 
President of the United States, the secretary of war and 


478 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


the adjutant general. My own commission, which I 
have carefully retained to this day, bears the names of 
Abraham Lincoln, Edwin M. Stanton and E. D. Town- 
send, the incumbents, respectively, of the three offices 
named. 

I arrived in the evening, and went to the same hotel I 
had occupied before — the National. After I had been 
assigned to a room and left my valise and sword, I 
sauntered into the barroom. I didn’t want a drink, but 
I thought I would just for once see what difference the 
shoulder straps would make. 

“Make me a light cocktail,” I said to the barkeeper. 

“Certainly, lieutenant; what shall it be, whisky or 
gin ?” 

I was now convinced that I had crossed the great 
gulf ! 


CONCLUSION. 

For nearly two years after promotion the writer 
served as a commissioned officer, but not in the field. 
It was on detached service, in secret government work, 
on commissions, etc. It was interesting, exciting, and 
replete with adventures. But that is, to quote a well- 
known author, “another story.” 











I 


< 


4 . 


























APPENDIX 

THE ANTIETAM MONUMENT 

(See page 134.) 

^ In accordance with a law passed in 1902, Governor 
Franklin Murphy appointed a Commission to erect a 
monument in memory of the New Jersey soldiers who 
participated in the battle of Antietam. This Commission 
was composed of New Jersey veterans, namely: 

James O. Smith (13th N. J.), 

Joseph E. Crowell (13th N. J.), 

John J. Toffey (33d N. J.), 
with 

Governor Franklin Murphy (13th N. J.) 
as ex officio member. 

For the cost of the monument and other expenses the 
legislature appropriated a little over $7,500, of which 
nearly $700 was returned to the State treasury as an un- 
expended balance. 

The story of constructing and erecting the monument 
(and “markers” ) is best told by the following extracts 
from the final report of the Commissioners : 

With pleasure your Commissioners announce that the 
labor connected with the construction and erection of a 
State monument and suitable markers (minutely de- 
scribed later on in this report) was fully completed on 
September 1st, 1903, and dedicated with appropriate ex- 
ercises on September 17th, 1903, the forty-first anniver- 
sary of the engagement (the battle of Antietam). 

The Commissioners, with as little delay as possible, set 
to work by inviting designs and bids for a State monu- 
ment. A design, submitted by John L. and W. Passmore 
Meeker, of Newark, N. J., and James Walling, of New 
York, was adopted, and to them was awarded the con- 
tract to set up complete a monument on the battlefield of 
Antietam for the sum of six thousand eight hundred 
dollars. 

The Commissioners, upon receiving the additional ap- 
propriation as per act of 1903 to complete the work and 


480 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


take survivors to the dedication, entered upon a contract 
with the firm providing the State monument for six addi- 
tional markers to mark the positions held by the different 
regiments of the State during the battle of Antietam and 
one brigade marker at Crampton’s Pass, Maryland. 

The Commissioners found it necessary to purchase a 
plot of ground on the Smoketown road on which to place 
the marker to the First New Jersey Brigade. A position 
could have been had by the roadside, but during wet and 
stormy weather the monument would have been splashed 
with mud from the wagons passing by, so, after due con- 
sideration, a plot of ground twenty-five feet square was 
bought, upon which was placed the brigade marker. 

The marker to the First New Jersey Brigade at Cramp- 
ton’s Pass was placed on a site tendered them by George 
Alfred Townsend, directly in front of the newspaper war 
correspondents’ arch. 

The Commissioners are indebted to General E. A. Car- 
man, who as colonel was in command of the 13th New 
Jersey regiment during the battle of Antietam, and who 
has had charge of laying out the field at Antietam for the 
government, and it is due to his efforts that New Jersey 
has secured such fine sites for her monument and markers 
and for the detail of construction and the nicety with 
which they were carried out. 

New Jersey now enjoys the honor of having as hand- 
some a State monument, if not the most handsome one, 
on the battlefield of Antietam. 

The New Jersey main State monument is forty feet in 
height from the base to the top of the head of the bronze 
statue surmounting it. 

The monument is of the best quality of Barre, Ver- 
mont, granite ; all granite used was carefully selected, free 
from cracks, flaws, stains, deposits or deleterious sub- 
stances. 

The monument is hexagonal up to the column, having 
a thirteen-foot six-inch base, and from the end of the but- 
tress on one side to the end of the buttress on the oppo- 
site side fifteen feet, with three steps which lead up to one 
complete face of the monument for each separate regi- 
ment and battery that was present and participated in the 



New Jersey Monument on Antietam Battle Field, near the site where 
Capt. Irish, of the 13th New Jersey, was killed. 































































' •• 

































































APPENDIX 


481 


battle, and whose respective names adorn the upper base 
of the monument. 

The perpendicular sides of the bottom base, second 
base, third base, fourth base and capital are fine ham- 
mered, except the face of the letters, the names of the dif- 
ferent regiments, these letters are raised and polished. 

The shaft is seventeen feet and ten inches unbroken, 
making in all from the masonry foundation to the top of 
column thirty-one feet, surmounted by a nine-foot statue 
of Captain Irish, of the 13th New Jersey Regiment, the 
first New Jersey officer to fall in the battle. The statue is 
a magnificent piece of work, and was modeled by 
Giuseppe Morretti and put in bronze by the Gorham Mfg. 
Co., as was all the bronze work used by the Commission. 

The bronze tablets on the separate faces of the monu- 
ment bear the following inscriptions : 


THIRTEENTH NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 

Colonel Ezra A. Carman, Commanding. 
Third Brigade, First Division, Twelfth Corps. 

Here this regiment, seventeen days after 
leaving home, met “its baptism of fire” Sept. 17, 
1862. The first to fall was Captain Hugh C. 
Irish. Later in the day the regiment was 
heavily engaged in the rear of the Dunkard 
Church. Its loss during the day was 102. In 
the army of the Potomac, and afterwards with 
General Sherman’s Army, the regiment 
served until the close of the war. 


FIRST NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 

Lieutenant-Colonel Mark W. Collett, 
Commanding. 

First Brigade, First Division, Sixth Corps. 

The 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th New Jersey 
Infantry and Hexamer’s Battery A were 
known as the “First New Jersey Brigade.” 
These were the first three year volunteers 
from the state. After serving through the 
Peninsula campaign the brigade, on Sept. 14, 
1862, performed such gallant services at 
Crampton’s Pass as to call forth the high 
commendation reproduced on the next tablets. 


482 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


SECOND NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 
Colonel Samuel L. Buck, Commanding. 
First Brigade, First Division, Sixth Corps. 
Headquarters ist Brigade, ist Division, 

Sixth Corps, Camp in Crampton’s Pass, 
Maryland, Sept. 15, 1862. 

General Orders: 

“Soldiers of the First New Jersey Brigade : — 
The 14th of September, 1862, is one long to be 
remembered, for on that day you dashingly 
met and drove the enemy at every point. Your 
advance in line of battle, under a galling ar- 
tillery fire, was a feat seldom if ever surpassed. 
The heights you took show plainly what de- 
termined and well disciplined soldiers can do.” 
(Continued on next tablet.) 


THIRD NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 

Colonel Henry W. Brown, Commanding. 

First Brigade, First Division, Sixth Corps. 

(Continued.) 

“You have sustained the reputation of your 
state and done credit to your officers and 
yourselves. While we may lament the death 
of our brave comrades who have fallen so 
gloriously we can only commend their souls to 
God and their sorrowing friends to His sure 
protection. May you go from victory to vic- 
tory is the hope and wish of the Colonel com- 
manding brigade.” 

A. T. A. Torbert, 
Colonel Commanding. 


FOURTH NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 
Colonel William B. Hatch, Commanding. 

First Brigade, First Division, Sixth Corps. 

( Continued.) 

From its bivouac at Crampton’s Pass the 
First New Jersey Brigade marched to this 
field on the morning of Sept. 17, 1862, and took 
position 600 yards easterly of this point near 
the Dunkard Church, where it remained until 
Sept. 19. It supported the Sixth Corps artil- 
lery and for six hours was under severe ar- 
tillery fire by which several men were killed 
or wounded. 


APPENDIX 


483 


BATTERY A, FIRST NEW JERSEY 
ARTILLERY. 

Captain William Hexamer, Commanding. 

First Brigade, First Division, Sixth Corps. 

After engagement at Crampton’s Pass Sept. 
14, 1862, the Battery was engaged on Sept. 17 at 
three different points on this field. From three 
to six o’clock the Battery fired 280 shells, 200 
shrapnel and 15 canisters, forcing out of posi- 
tion two Confederate batteries and repelling 
an infantry force. 


[All these inscriptions were prepared by the author of 
“The Young Volunteer,” and were approved by the Sec- 
retary of War.] 

Over each tablet there is a bronze corps badge, and on 
a bronze tablet placed on the face of the lower base the 
following inscription : 


Erected by the State of New Jersey in Grateful 
Remembrance of her Gallant Sons who 
Fought on this Field Sept. 17, 1862. 


Dedicated Sept. 17, 1903. 


Franklin Murphy, (13th N. J. Inf.), Governor. 


James O. Smith (13th N. J. Inf.), 

Joseph E. Crowell (13th N. J. Inf.), 

John J. Toffey (33rd N. J. Inf.), 

Commissioners. 


The State monument stands at the intersection of the 
Hagerstown pike and Cornfield avenue ; this last being one 
of the military roads opened up by the National Commis- 
sion and named for the historic cornfield where the san- 
guinary struggle of the morning of that eventful day took 
place, and where the Thirteenth New Jersey Infantry first 
came into action. 

The monument faces west towards the enemy’s position, 


484 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


and can be seen for miles around ; on the opposite corner 
stands the Massachusetts State monument, and in a short 
time the State of Pennsylvania will erect a fine monument 
on the west side of the Hagerstown road, directly facing 
it, to the 124th Pennsylvania Infantry. 

Situated on the Smoketown road a short distance from 
the State monument stands a brigade marker four feet 
eight inches long, two feet four inches wide, and four feet 
three inches high, made of the best Barre, Vermont, 
granite rock; rough finished, on the center of which is 
a bronze tablet two feet ten inches, bearing the follow- 
ing inscription : 


FIRST NEW JERSEY BRIGADE, 

1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th Infantry and Hcxamer’s 
Battery. 

September 17, 1862. 

The brigade arrived upon this field from 
Crampton’s Pass about noon, and was formed 
for a charge upon the Confederate line just 
north of the Dunkard Church. The order for 
the charge was countermanded, and the 
brigade took position across the road, in sup- 
port of the 6th Corps artillery, the right of the 
brigade in woods north of the road, the left in 
the open field south, where it remained, under 
artillery fire, until the morning of the 19th. 


Situated on the Smoketown road near that part of the 
battlefield known as the East Woods is one small marker, 
two feet wide, one foot thick, and standing two feet six 
inches above the surface, capped with a bronze tablet bear- 
ing the following inscription : 


THIRTEENTH NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 

September 17, 1862. 

First position under artillery fire, about 150 
yards north of this point. At 10 a. m. ad- 
vanced to Hagerstown road and became closely 
engaged. 




Antietam, September 17th, 1862. 

Desperate charge on the Rebel Batteries by the Ninth New York Volunteers, Hawkins’ Zouaves. 






APPENDIX 


485 


Situated on Hagerstown road a short distance from the 
State monument is another small marker of the same di- 
mensions as the one above, bearing this inscription : 


THIRTEENTH NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 
September 17, 1862. 

Center of regiment at 10.20 a. m., facing 
west. Part of the right wing was across the 
road. 


Beyond the Dunkard Church, and marking the most 
advanced position held by the 13th New Jersey Infantry 
during the battle, is another of the small markers, the in- 
scription of the bronze cap reading : 


THIRTEENTH NEW JERSEY INFANTRY. 
September 17, 1862. 

Engaged in this position, facing west, from 
11.20 a. m. to about noon. 


Situated on the Hagerstown road a short distance from 
the Dunkard church, near the Maryland State monument, 
stands another small marker bearing on its bronze cap the 
following inscription : 


FIRST NEW JERSEY BRIGADE, 

1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th Infantry and Hexamer’s 
Battery. 

September 17, 1862. 

This stone marks the right of the brigade, 
when, a little after noon, it was formed to 
charge the woods north if the Dunkard 
Church. The order was countermanded and 
the brigade moved a short distance to the left 
to support the corps artillery, soon after 
which Hexamer’s battery engaged and silenced 
the Confederate artillery at the Dunkard 
Church. 


4 86 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Situated on the government road near the Observation 
Tower, at about the center of the line of battle, stands 
another marker bearing the following inscription : 


HEXAMER’S (NEW JERSEY) BATTERY. 

September 17, 1862. 

From a position about 60 yards south of 
this point the battery, between 2 and 3 p. m., 
engaged and silenced the Confederate artillery 
around the Dunkard Church. 


A short distance away on the same road stands one 
bearing the following inscription : 


HEXAMER’S (NEW JERSEY) BATTERY. 
September 17, 1862. 

From 3.30 p. m. until near sunset this battery 
from a point about 80 yards north of this, en- 
gaged the enemy around the Piper buildings. 


One more brigade marker was placed by the Commis- 
sioners at Crampton Pass, Maryland, at the position taken 
and held by the First New Jersey Brigade on September 
14th, 1862. It is four feet six inches long, two feet four 
inches wide and four feet three inches high ; the site for 
this marker was given by George Alfred Townsend, and 
it is directly in front of the Newspaper Correspondents’ 
Arch, which was erected by Mr. Townsend to the memory 
of the newspaper correspondents ; upon the bronze tablet 
of this marker is the following inscription : 


FIRST NEW JERSEY BRIGADE, 

1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th Infantry and Hexamer’s 
Battery. 

September 17, 1862. 

Late in the afternoon the brigade advanced 
from the fields north and west of Burkittsville, 
charged up the mountain, carried this point, 
and followed the enemy to the west foot of 
the mountain. Loss in the brigade 40 killed, 
134 wounded. 


APPENDIX 


487 


This completes the markers placed by the Commission, 
which are all of the best material to be had, and of the 
finest workmanship, and a credit to the grand and glo- 
rious cause in commemoration of which they were 
erected. 

Making in all a fine tribute from the State of New 
Jersey to her troops that took part in this great struggle 
for the life and unity of our Republic. 


THE DEDICATION. 

A special train bearing the Commissioners and their 
guests, three hundred and forty veterans of the battle, 
along with two hundred of their friends and relatives, left 
Jersey City by the Pennsylvania Railroad on the morning 
of September 16th, stopping at all the principal stations 
in New Jersey, picking up the veterans from different 
points in the State for whom transportation had been fur- 
nished from their homes to Antietam and return. A lunch 
was served to the veterans on the train, and a stop was 
made at Hagerstown, Maryland, over night, leaving next 
morning for Antietam, where, on September 17th, forty- 
one years after the memorable battle was fought, the 
monument was dedicated with appropriate and imposing 
exercises. 

Close by the monument a capacious stand had been 
erected and handsomely decorated with flags and bunting 
and provided with chairs. Music was furnished by the 
Keedysville Band. 

Through the kindly offices of Gen. E. A. Carman, and 
by order of the Chief of Staff, Lieutenant-General S. B. 
M. Young, a battery of artillery from Fort Meyer, near 
Washington, D. C., was detailed to march to Antietam 
field, and there fired the necessary salutes. 

The special train bearing President Roosevelt and his 
party, Governor Murphy and his entire staff, with Sena- 
tors John Kean, John F. Dryden and other prominent 
State officials, was met by conveyances provided by the 


4 88 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


Commissioners to take them to the stand where the fob 
lowing programme was carried out : 

Salute to the President U. S. Artillery 

The Veterans will rally at the Dunkard Church, 
and there form in columns of fours, the First Brigade 
on the right, to escort the President and Governor to 
the monument. On reaching the monument they will 
form in hollow square around the Speakers’ stand. 

Music Keedysville Band 

Call to Order James O. Smith, Chairman N. J. Mon. Com. 

Prayer Rev. D. R. Frazer, D. D., of Newark 

Report of Commissioners James O. Smith 

Acceptance of the work of the Commissioners on behalf of 
New Jersey by 

Governor Franklin Murphy. 

Acceptance of the New Jersey Monument and Markers by the 
Federal Government, 

President Theodore Roosevelt. 


National Hymn Keedysville Band 

Benediction Rev. William H. McCormack 


One of the most interesting features of the unveiling of 
the monument was the uncovering by Mrs. J. Hartwell, a 
sister of Captain Irish, whose reproduction in bronze sur- 
mounts the monument. 

Accompanying President Roosevelt and Governor Mur- 
phy, and participating in the ceremonies of dedication, 
were a large number of officials, both National and State, 
among whom were : 

Surgeon-General P. M. Rixey, U. S. N. ; Mr. William 
Loeb, Jr., Secretary to the President; Adjutant-General 
R. Heber Breintnall, N. J. N. G. ; Quartermaster-General 
R. A. Donnelly, Inspector-General Jos. W. Congdon, In- 
spector-General Rifle Practice, Bird W. Spencer, Judge- 
Advocate-General Ed. P. Meany, Surgeon-General John 
D. McGill, Colonel Franklin Murphy, Jr., A. D. C. ; Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel Lewis T. Bryant, A. D. C. ; Lieutenant- 
Colonel Charles W. Parker, A. D. C. ; Captain Arthur 
Mackie, A. D. C. ; Lieutenant Walter E. Edge, A. D. C. ; 
Lieutenant Everett Colby, A. D. C. ; Major-General P. F. 
Wanser, Brigadier-General Edward A. Campbell, Briga- 
dier-General Q. O’M. Gillmore, Lieutenant-Colonel Bren- 
singer, Senator John Kean, Senator John F. Dry den, 


APPENDIX 


489 


Congressman H. C. Loudenslager, Congressman John J. 
Gardner, Congressman William M. Lanning, Congress- 
man B. F. Howell, Congressman R. Wayne Parker, Con- 
gressman William H. Wiley, Congressman William 
Hughes, Congressman Allan Benney, Hon. Robert H. 
McCarter, Attorney-General; Hon. Frank O. Briggs, 
State Treasurer; Hon. Willard Morgan, State Comp- 
troller; Hon. E. C. Stokes, Clerk Court of Chancery 
(afterward elected Governor of N. J.) ; Hon. Winton C. 
Garrison, Commissioner of Labor; Hon. David O. Wat- 
kins, Commissioner of Banking and Insurance ; Rev. Dr. 
David R. Frazer, Hon. J. Harry Bacheller, State Senator ; 
Hon. Joseph Cross, State Senator; Hon. Wood McKee, 
State Senator; Hon. John A. Wildrick, Member of Leg- 
islature ; Hon. William B. Garrabrants, Member of Leg- 
islature; Hon. Thos. J. Hillery, Member of Legislature; 
Captain Charles Curie, Hon. George H. Hard, President 
of Chatham National Bank (formerly a captain of the 
13th N. J.) ; Captain Benjamin Murphy, Jersey City; 
Captain Ambrose Matthews, Orange, and others. 

After the exercises and a hurried inspection of the field, 
accompanied by the President, the Governor and his party 
left for Newark, while the Commissioners’ train, bearing 
the veterans, went to Gettysburg, where a stop was made 
until one o’clock the following day, giving the veterans 
and their friends a chance to visit that historic field. The 
party arrived home about seven o’clock of the 18th, hav- 
ing had a very interesting and enjoyable trip. 

Below is given a statement of receipts and expenditures 
of the Commission : 


State appropriations $7> 5 12 4° 

Total expenses 6,866 64 

Balance turned into State Treasury $645 76 


Nearly $700 turned back into the State Treasury! 
Which shows the refining effects of forty years of civil 
life! 


490 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


THE THOMPSONS, OF GALVESTON. 

(See page 162.) 

“Say, Crowell, do you remember that story of yours 
about ‘sleeping with a reb’ on the night after the battle 
of Antietam, as related in your book, ‘The Young Volun- 
teer?’ ” 

The speaker was General Ezra A. Carman. The time 
was about the middle of September, 1902. The place, 
Keedysville, about five miles from the Antietam battle- 
field. 

Keedysville! It was just the same, almost, as it was 
during the time we marched through it on the way to that 
terrible Antietam battle (called by the Confederates “The 
Battle of Sharpsburg”). The little hamlet is located on 
the top of a small hill. The roadway was evidently cut 
through after the buildings were erected, so that the side- 
walks are about four feet higher than the street. There is 
only one street in the place. 

The roadway and sidewalk are paved alike, with great 
slabs of stone, with the smooth sides uppermost, but 
withal making about as rough a surface as could be well 
imagined. A drunken man falling off the “curb” would 
break his neck. It was so in the war time. It is the same 
now. The footsteps of improvement have made little im- 
press on Keedysville. The population is about the same. 
It has what is called a hotel, with the pigs in the yard 
and the washroom consisting of a basin of water and a 
roller towel in the main office. 

Keedysville is now located on a rough and ready rail- 
road that runs from a side station on the main line of the 
Baltimore and Ohio, and the “hotel” is situated close by 
the railroad. The event of the day is the arrival and de- 
parture of the train. The piazza of the hotel is the street, 
and on that warm night, after a tiresome tour of the bat- 
tlefield for the selection of the site for the New Jersey 
State monument, the Commissioners, with their secretary 
and General Carman, were lazily passing the two hours 
before the arrival of the train for Hagerstown, some four- 
teen miles farther on, where we were to spend the night. 

It was while sitting there engaged in swapping war 


APPENDIX 


491 


stories, that General Carman asked the question beginning 
this article. 

“Yes,” I replied, “I remember that night well.” 

“Did you ever receive any answer to the letter you 
sent to Mrs. Thompson ?” asked the General. 

“Not a word,” I answered. 

“Then I have something that will interest you,” said 
General Carman. 

I was all ears. 

“There is a man in our office,” continued the General 
(who meant the office of the Secretary of War, where he 
was employed while in Washington), “who has a hobby 
of following up such mysteries. He wrote a letter to the 
postmaster at Galveston asking if there was such a family 
living there then. There was. The postmaster referred 
the letter to the family itself and the answer was soon 
coming. It stated that that letter was the first informa- 
tion of the fate of Mr. Thompson, and in fact the only 
information they had ever received as to what had become 
of him. His wife had since died, but his son was a hard- 
ware dealer in Galveston, doing a large and successful 
business.” 

“Has your friend that letter now ?” I asked. 

“I think he has and I will ask him to send it to you,” 
replied General Carman. 

“I would be more than pleased to have it,” I said. 

The General made a memorandum on his pad, and sev- 
eral weeks afterward I received the letter from the son of 
the man with whom I had slept while he was dying. The 
letter head was handsomely lithographed, and there was 
an air of business about it that indicated that the writer 
was the head of a big establishment. The son of my old 
companion was evidently doing well. 

I immediately wrote to him, but received no reply. 
After a while I wrote again with the same unsatisfactory 
result. Then I wrote to the Mayor of the city and to “The 
editor of the leading paper of Galveston, Texas.” 

From the latter I received the following answer : 
“THE PEOPLE TO WHOM YOU REFER AND 
THEIR ENTIRE POSSESSIONS WERE COM- 
PLETELY WIPED OUT BY THE GREAT FLOOD !” 


49 2 


THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER 


The reader will remember the great Galveston flood, 
which killed so many people and almost wiped the unfor- 
tunate city out of existence. 

What a pathetic series of tragedies ! 


SOME MORE AWFUL FIGURES. 

(See page 119.) 

Since the first edition of “The Young Volunteer” was 
printed, the war between Japan and Russia has occurred. 

The loss on the Russian side will probably never be 
definitely known. The Japanese records are more com- 
plete. I have the following information from Tokio : 

“In the war with Russia, Japan lost 59,000 men from 
wounds and 25,000 from disease. The number of men 
actually in the field was 1,245,000. There probably has 
never been another army in which the deaths from disease 
did not far outnumber those from wounds.” 

The latest information received from St. Petersburg 
is to the following effect : 

“The list of casualties in the Russian army are very 
incomplete. Up to this date (April 1, 1906) the losses 
sustained, not including Port Arthur, total 151,000 killed, 
wounded and disappeared. The lists covering the fighting 
at Mukden are just beginning to appear. A remarkable 
feature is the percentage of men whose fate is unknown, 
having been abandoned on the field of battle. The staff is 
receiving thousands of inquiries from relatives regarding 
the fate of soldiers, which it is unable to answer. The 
total number of officers and men at the front in the war 
with Japan was 1,037,000.* 

It is therefore apparent that the loss on the Russian 
side was much the larger — at least two to one. 

The total number engaged on both sides during this 
terrible war, the first fought under modem conditions 
and with modern appliances, was 2,282,000. 







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